OPINIONS    OF 

ANATOLE 
FRANCE 

RECORDED     BY 

PAUL  GSELL 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LO5     — ~-    ANGELES 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Opinions  of 
Anatole  France 


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IRELAND'S  LITERARY  RENAISSANCE 

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JVom  /i  'ptWxvcmvpfy  JW  &^uar£    i.  c)/fccXooefv 


THE  OPINIONS 
OF  ANATOLE  FRANCE 

Recorded   by  Paul   Gsell 

Translated  from  the  French 
by  Ernest  Boyd 


New  York 
ALFRED  'A'  KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  BERNARD  GRASSET 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INO. 

Published  May,  19S2 
Second  Printing,  October.  1999 


Bet  up,  electrotvped,  and  printed  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  Y. 
Paper  supplied   by  W.   F.   Etherington  &   Co.,  New  York. 
Bound  bu  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York. 


MANUFACTURED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


Coilega 
library 


Contents 

I  To  the  Reader  9 

II  The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage  15 

III  Candidates  for  the  Academy  31 

IV  On  Becoming  on  Academician  45 
V  Politics  in  the  Academy  59 

VI     The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic  67 

VII     Professor  Brown  and  the  Secret  of 

Genius  85 

VIII     Professor  Brown  Still  Searches          97 

IX     Professor  Brown  Bewildered  117 

X    A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll    129 

XI     M.  Bergeret  Collaborates  with  the 

Divine  Sarah  153 

XII     Anatole    France    at    Rodin's,    or 

Lunch  at  Meudon  175 

XIII  On  War  199 

XIV  The    Russian    Revolution    at    the 

Villa  Said  219 

XV    The  Omnipotence  of  Dream  235 


To  the  Reader 


To  The  Reader 


The  familiar  discourses  of  the  Abbe  Jerome 
Coignard  have  been  preserved  for  us  by  his  ingenu- 
ous disciple  Jacques  Tournebroche.  My  excellent 
Master,  Anatole  France,  has  a  certain  spiritual  re- 
lationship with  the  Abbe  Jerome  Coignard.  His 
discourse  is  no  less  elegant.  It  would  be  a  pity, 
indeed,  if  his  learned  and  weighty  sayings  were  lost 
for  ever.  Like  another  Tournebroche,  it  was  my 
good  fortune  to  treasure  them  at  those  erstwhile 
gatherings  in  the  Villa  Said,  which  were  the  most 
dazzling  feasts  of  reason,  during  the  years  before 
the  war.  Thither  came  men  of  letters,  artists, 
statesmen,  Spanish  anarchists  and  Russian  nihilists. 
With  his  keen  delight  in  knowing  the  strangest 
specimens  of  humanity,  the  master  of  the  house  re- 
ceived them  all  with  affectionate  courtesy.  The 
attraction  of  his  own  personality  saved  him  the 
necessity  of  going  in  search  of  game.  The  models 
which  he  wanted  to  draw  came  to  his  house  and 
posed  for  him  without  any  compulsion.  He  did 
them  the  signal  favour  of  trying  on  them  some  of 
the  most  ingenious  apophthegms  which  he  after- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

wards  put  down  in  writing.  It  was  this  prepara- 
tory work  of  a  great  artist  in  his  studio  which  it 
was  my  privilege  to  follow  for  many  years. 

When  Anatole  France  is  mentioned  it  is  usual 
to  say:  "He  is  a  magician,  but  what  a  dreadful 
sceptic!"  As  one  who  listened  to  him  assiduously, 
I  can  correct  this  too  prevalent  misunderstanding. 

If  by  a  sceptic  is  meant  a  philosopher  who  doubts 
what  he  does  not  know  to  be  true,  and  what  he  has 
no  reason  whatever  to  believe,  who  mocks  at  fatal 
prejudices,  makes  fun  of  swollen  reputations,  and 
lashes  stupid  and  cruel  ambitions,  then,  assuredly, 
Anatole  France  is  the  prince  of  sceptics.  But  it  is 
just  the  contrary  of  the  truth  to  say  that  he  is  in- 
different to  all  things.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  dis- 
covering very  solid  convictions  in  his  slightest  re- 
torts. 

He  is  perhaps  the  last  craftsman  of  letters  who 
has  retained  the  fine  superstition  of  a  fluid  and 
diaphanous  style,  the  noble  prejudice  in  favour  of 
words  full  of  savour,  and  of  harmonious  phrases. 
He  loves  gentle  France  so  piously  that  he  has  made 
of  that  tender  word  a  pseudonym  in  order  to  be 
at  one  with  his  country.  Like  the  most  generous 
minds  of  his  native  land,  he  professes  the  religion 
of  sincerity,  the  cult  of  tolerance  and  devotion  to 
pity.  Experience  has  been  far  from  indulgent  to 
his  hopes.  Yet,  during  the  worst  periods  of  de- 

Cio] 


To  the  Reader 

pression  in  his  lifetime  he  has  preserved  his  faith 
in  the  slow  and  certain  progress  of  justice  and  good- 
ness. When  occasion  arose,  this  nonchalant  dreamer 
did  not  spare  himself,  nor  hesitate  to  go  into 
the  market-place  to  defend  the  Ideal.  Heaven 
knows  what  an  effort  it  is  for  him  to  take  off  his 
crimson  skull  cap  and  his  blanket-wool  dressing 
gown,  kick  off  his  slippers  and  leave  his  fireside. 
Many  a  time,  however,  he  has  left  his  ivory  tower 
with  resolute  step  to  bring  words  of  good  cheer  to 
his  rough  comrades  in  the  working-class  districts. 

Finally,  he  adores  friendship  above  everything 
else.  Thus,  the  man  who  symbolizes  incredulity  in 
the  eyes  of  many  of  his  contemporaries  is,  after 
his  own  fashion,  the  most  devout  believer.  Such 
is  the  evidence  of  his  own  words  in  the  pages  which 
follow. 

Here  in  their  first  form  will  be  found  not  only 
maxims  with  which  he  embellished  his  writings,  but 
also  many  excellent  and  hitherto  unpublished 
stories.  No  doubt,  these  are  but  the  crumbs  and 
fragments  of  a  royal  feast,  but  the  superior  quality 
of  great  men  is  not  always  attested  in  their  most 
laboured  works.  Rather  may  it  be  recognized  in 
what  springs  spontaneously  and  without  effort  from 
their  brain.  The  best  of  their  genius  often  lies  in 
what  they  never  think  of  writing  down,  but  reveal 
in  instinctive  outbursts,  in  thoughts  long  matured, 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

which  come  out  involuntarily,  without  their  notic- 
ing it. 

As  is  well  known,  M.  France  is  the  most  perfect 
talker.  His  novels,  after  all,  are  little  more  than 
philosophical  dialogues  held  together  by  a  tenuous 
thread.  Probably  his  most  attractive  book  is  the 
delightful  Jardin  d'Epicure,  where  he  scatters  his 
idle  fancies  like  the  petals  of  a  flower.  The  present 
work  represents  an  adjacent  field  of  fancy.  It  will 
certainly  give  less  pleasure,  because  the  hand  of  the 
wizard  himself  does  not  guide  the  pen.  I  have  en- 
deavoured, however,  to  preserve  even  the  form  of 
his  speech.  Already  for  some  time  before  the  war 
bitter  troubles  had  inclined  Anatole  France  towards 
isolation.  The  awful  cyclone  drove  him  from 
Versailles,  where  he  had  sought  repose  amidst  the 
nostalgic  splendours  of  the  past.  He  transferred 
his  household  goods  to  La  Bechellerie,  a  small  prop- 
erty which  he  acquired  near  Tours,  and  where  he 
lived  in  meditation  during  the  years  of  horror. 

His  spirit  has  been  saddened  by  so  many  catas- 
trophes. The  interminable  butchery  was  a  cruel 
trial  for  a  heart  overflowing  with  human  compas- 
sion. There  is  little  likelihood  that  my  excellent 
Master  will  ever  resume  those  meetings  at  which 
his  mocking  humour  sparkled,  and  so,  I  no  longer 
postpone  the  task  of  catching  something  of  its  elu- 
sive memory. 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

Prancing  in  the  silvery  morning  sunlight  fashion- 
able ladies  on  horseback  and  skilled  horsemen  come 
down  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  towards  the  Porte 
Dauphine  along  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
From  one  side  of  that  proud  thoroughfare  there 
runs  a  blind  alley,  quiet  and  planted  with  sycamores, 
which  a  diligent  gardener  has  pruned  and  trimmed 
in  the  French  fashion.  This  is  the  Villa  Sai'd. 
The  dwelling-houses  along  the  side  are  of  modest 
height,  and  have  a  rural  air,  although  they  are  within 
the  city  boundaries  of  Paris.  They  are  attrac- 
tive and  well  cared  for  behind  their  iron  railings, 
and  they  shelter  gentle  folk,  people  of  private 
means,  artists,  authors  and  philosophers.  Anatole 
France  lives  at  number  five. 

For  a  long  time  during  the  war  this  house  was 
silent,  abandoned  by  its  master.  It  seemed  widowed 
and  melancholy.  The  door,  the  windows  on  the 
ground  floor,  were  hideously  barricaded  with  bricks 
and  plaster.  It  was  the  picture  of  desolation. 
Since  then  this  gloomy  facade  has  opened  its  win- 
dows again,  as  though  they  were  eyelids,  and  smiles 

Cifl 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

once  more.  Sometimes  Anatole  France  returns  to 
his  hermitage,  when  he  is  not  staying  at  Saint-Cyr- 
les-Tours  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  or  with  friends 
beneath  the  shady  trees  of  Saint-Cloud.  But  I 
wish  to  describe  this  little  house  at  the  Villa  Sai'd, 
the  Hermitage  of  the  Sage,  as  it  was  in  the  happy 
times  when  crowds  of  visitors  haunted  it. 

The  green  painted  door  was  a  museum  in  itself. 
The  handle  of  the  bell  was  in  bronze,  a  little 
Florentine  head,  whose  grace  seemed  to  give  a 
friendly  reception  to  the  hand  that  caressed  it. 
The  letter  box  was  studded  with  old  medals.  One 
day  the  master  himself  showed  me  over  the 
house. 

The  old  servant,  Josephine,  had  admitted  me. 
She  was  a  worthy  servitor  for  M.  Bergeret.  She 
always  wore  a  rather  mistrustful  expression.  She 
would  open  the  door  a  couple  of  inches,  look  at  the 
newcomer  suspiciously,  keep  him  prudently  outside 
during  this  minute  inspection,  and  allow  him  to 
enter  only  when  she  knew  who  it  was. 

Every  day  little  pieces  of  pasteboard  were  handed 
to  her  on  which  she  would  decipher  the  names  of 
dukes,  marquises,  generals,  academicians  and  states- 
men. Human  greatness  was  only  too  familiar  to 
Josephine.  She  had  seen  through  the  vanity  of  it 
all. 

"Is  the  Master  at  home?"  people  would  ask. 

[16] 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

"The  Master!  The  Master!"  she  would  repeat 
grumbling:  "Why  do  you  call  him  Master?  He 
is  master  only  of  his  soup,  and  even  of  that  only 
so  long  as  he  has  it  in  his  mouth." 

She  would  mumble  these  savoury  phrases  be- 
tween her  gold-filled  teeth.  It  was  not  unpleasant 
to  hear  the  servant  of  a  philosopher  uttering  opin- 
ions so  full  of  sap. 

The  hall  was  overflowing  with  treasures.  Per- 
sian china  with  blue,  green  and  red  carnations;  pot- 
tery from  Rhodes  with  bronzed  lights;  ancient 
statuettes  standing  on  small  tables  and  consoles. 
A  fat  monk  was  hastily  telling  his  beads  near  a 
German  Virgin  with  protruding  forehead  and 
crinkly  hair.  A  mincing  Italian  Lucretia  was 
eternally  piercing  her  breast. 

Through  the  gold-spangled  stained-glass  win- 
dows an  irridescent  light  fell  upon  the  staircase. 
From  the  very  threshold  one  could  recognize  the 
taste  of  a  most  learned  and  discriminating  col- 
lector. This  hall,  so  sumptuously  decorated,  re- 
called an  anecdote  I  had  heard. 

A  young  girl  student  from  Russia  had  no  other 
thought,  on  arriving  in  Paris,  than  to  see  Anatole 
France.  From  the  writer's  fame  and  his  books  she 
worshipped  this  friend  of  the  humble  and  suffering, 
and,  furnished  with  a  warm  recommendation,  she 
rushed  off  to  the  Villa  Said. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

She  hands  her  letter  to  Josephine  who  goes  up 
one  floor  to  tell  her  master.  He  consents  to  receive 
the  visitor. 

"Come  up!"  shouts  the  servant  peremptorily 
across  the  banisters. 

But  there  is  no  reply. 

Josephine  comes  down  again,  rather  impatient. 
The  hall  is  empty.  She  looks  in  the  dining-room, 
the  drawing-room.  Nobody  there. 

Well!  What  is  wrong,  Josephine?  asks  the 
master  who  is  waiting. 

"Well,  Sir,  I  don't  know  where  in  the  world  the 
young  lady  has  disappeared." 

What? 

"She  has  decamped." 

What  on  earth  do  you  mean? 

"I  can't  make  it  out,  Sir.  I  have  looked  every* 
where.  I  can't  find  her.  She  has  gone!" 

Well,  upon  my  word!     She  must  be  mad! 

Later  on  the  riddle  was  explained.  As  soon  as 
she  entered,  the  Russian  girl  was  dumbfounded  by 
a  refinement  of  luxury  which  exceeded  the  opulence 
of  the  most  magnificent  Croesus.  It  was  not  thus 
that  she  had  pictured  the  retreat  of  an  apostle. 
This  simple  soul,  this  candid  child  of  Scythia,  could 
not  conceive  that  a  passion  for  the  Beautiful  was 
compatible  with  a  tender  heart.  She  had  been 
seized  by  a  kind  of  anguish.  Suddenly,  she  had 

Ciffl 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

turned  about,  and  gone  out.  She  had  quietly  closed 
the  door  behind  her  and  had  fled,  even  more  quickly 
than  she  had  come.  She  was  never  seen  again. 

I  took  good  care  not  to  imitate  that  Russian 
student,  and  as  soon  as  ever  Josephine  shouted  to 
me,  I  hastened  upstairs  to  the  philosopher's  study. 

Anatole  France  was  about  to  submit  his  head  to 
the  attentions  of  the  barber,  and  with  a  courtesy 
which  I  deeply  appreciated,  he  apologized  for  con- 
tinuing his  toilet  in  my  presence. 

Figaro,  who  came  forward  with  his  razor  opened 
and  the  shaving-soap,  spilt  some  of  the  lather  on 
the  table  and  scattered  a  few  pages  of  manuscript. 
France  stared  at  him  with  an  expression  of  comic 
irritation. 

You  always  come  in  here  like  a  scythed  chariot. 
You  are  a  terrible  man. 

Doubtless  accustomed  to  these  lyrical  outbursts, 
the  terrible  man  did  not  utter  a  sound,  but  prepared 
to  begin  operations.  It  was  not  an  easy  task,  for 
M.  Bergeret  kept  moving  and  talking  all  the  time 
while  his  beard  was  being  trimmed.  In  one  of  his 
tales  Grimm  tells  of  a  barber  who  was  so  skilful  that 
he  could  shave  a  hare  in  full  flight.  That  was 
child's  play  beside  the  miracle  of  which  I  was  a 
witness. 

The  bedroom  was  charming.  Above  the  Renais- 
sance bed  an  Italian  canopy  was  supported  by 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

twisted  brown  columns,  and  its  green  silk  was 
brightened  with  flowers  of  tender  hue.  Amongst 
the  things  which  he  liked  best,  France  pointed  to  a 
piece  of  antique  sculpture  on  the  mantelpiece.  It 
was  a  woman's  head,  thrown  back  a  little,  with 
half-closed  eyes  filled  with  amorous  languor. 

/  discovered  it,  he  said,  on  the  seashore  near 
Naples,  in  a  fishermen's  hut  which  was  almost  en- 
tirely built  of  broken  fragments  of  masterpieces. 
It  was  some  distance  from  my  hotel,  so  I  added  an- 
other lira  to  the  price  agreed  upon,  to  have  this 
piece  of  marble,  which  is  very  heavy,  carried  for 
me.  At  first  I  did  not  notice  who  was  going  to  do 
it,  but  suddenly  I  remarked  that  it  was  a  poor 
woman,  in  an  advanced  stage  of  pregnancy.  I  hast- 
ened to  relieve  her  of  this  burden  and  to  give  it  to 
a  young  lad  whom  I  presented  in  advance  with  an- 
other small  silver  coin.  Now,  observe  how  one's 
best  intentions  are  misunderstood.  The  good  fish- 
erwoman  was  so  annoyed  at  being  paid  for  a  serv- 
ice of  which  I  relieved  her  that  she  interpreted 
my  compassion  as  an  insult.  She  did  not  return 
the  lira,  which  I  certainly  would  not  have  taken 
back,  but  she  followed  me  all  along  the  road  hurling 
vulgar  insults  at  me.  Thus,  I  learnt  that  honesty 
is  deeply  rooted  in  the  heart  of  man  .  .  .  and  even 
of  woman. 

C20] 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

That  is  not  the  only  memory  which  that  'voluptu- 
ous head  recalls. 

I  left  Naples  by  sea.  As  you  know,  the  Italians 
make  sure  that  travellers  do  not  carry  of  works  of 
art  in  their  trunks.  A  wise  ordinance,  the  Pacca 
law,  prohibits  the  spoliation  of  the  artistic  marvels 
of  which  the  peninsula  is  so  proud.  I  wanted  that 
head  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  declare 
it.  I  had  carefully  packed  it  in  a  little  white 
wooden  box.  When  the  customs  inspector  asked 
what  was  in  that  package: 

"Niente!     Niente!"  said  I,  very  innocently. 

He  accepted  this  evasive  reply,  and  was  going  to 
put  the  little  box  amongst  the  things  which  had  al- 
ready been  examined.  But  alas!  the  bottom  fell 
out,  and  when  the  box  was  lifted,  the  head  sud- 
denly appeared,  with  its  expression  of  ecstatic  love, 
and  seemed  to  defy  the  world.  I  was  covered  with 
shame.  The  inspector  examined  the  piece  of 
marble  like  an  expert,  struck  an  attitude  to  conr 
template  it,  and  then  turned  to  me  with  an  inef- 
fable smile: 

"Niente!     Niente!"  he  said  mockingly. 

The  cruel  monster  was  torturing  me.  But  with 
superior  condescension  he  said: 

"Take  it.  We  have  too  many  beautiful  things 
in  Italy." 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

You  mould  have  thought  that  this  excise  man  had 
carved  with  his  own  hands  all  the  Venuses  of  antiq- 
uity, and  that  he  could  create  others  by  the  dozen. 

When  his  beard  was  finished  France  stood  up 
and  put  on  his  scarlet  cap  exactly  like  those  of  the 
Quattrocento  Florentines,  in  the  frescoes  with 
which  Ghirlandajo  has  embellished  the  church  of 
Santa-Maria  Novella. 

We  entered  his  study. 

On  the  table  an  adorable  winged  spirit  of 
Tanagra  rose  upon  its  toes  to  take  flight. 

/  think  it  is  genuine,  said  my  host,  and,  what  is 
still  better,  it  is  delightful. 

With  a  reverent  hand  he  took  the  little  Cupid 
and,  raising  it  to  his  eyes,  almost  to  his  lips,  he 
caressed  it  tenderly.  A  dialogue  without  words 
between  a  very  modern  thinker  and  the  naive  model- 
ler who,  in  the  distant  past,  had  impregnated  this 
clay  with  all  the  melancholy  grace  of  his  time. 

M.  Bergeret  has  eclectic  tastes  and  his  purchases 
prove  their  variety. 

The  fact  is,  his  preferences  varied  from  year  to 
year,  and  his  domestic  surroundings  were  modified 
according  to  the  books  he  was  writing.  Each 
period  of  his  life  has  left  rich  alluvial  deposits. 
Thais  is  represented  by  the  relics  of  Hellas,  the 
heads,  and  torsos,  the  statuettes  and  the  slender 

D223 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

pedestals  of  amber-coloured  marble;  the  Lys  Rouge 
by  Italian  faience;  Jeanne  d'  Arc  by  the  fifteenth 
century  tapestries;  the  novel,  Les  Dieux  ont  soif, 
by  furniture  and  engravings  dating  from  Louis  XVI 
and  the  Revolution.  The  style  which  finally  domin- 
ated was  that  of  the  end  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
because  it  harmonized  with  the  last  avatar  of  that 
infinitely  capricious  sensitiveness.  This  house  re- 
flects a  soul  in  its  decorations.  It  is  a  setting  like 
the  elegant  case  in  which  a  wonderful  jewel  is  en- 
chased. 

/  am  not  wealthy,  France  explains,  and  yet  my 
collection  is  very  creditable.  Collectors  are  like 
lovers,  passion  makes  up  for  want  of  money. 
Beautiful  women  are  often  more  deeply  touched 
by  the  fervent  and  insistent  prayers  of  poor  swains 
than  by  the  dazzling  liberality  of  financiers  roll- 
ing in  wealth. 

In  the  boxes  of  the  second-hand  book  dealers,  in 
the  half-closed  portfolios  at  the  back  of  dark  shops, 
the  unique  items,  which  the  millionaires  miss, 
sometimes  cast  inviting  glances  at  those  who  browse 
with  ill-furnished  purses,  but  who  seek,  pursue,  run 
down  and  implore  them  with  frantic  covetousness. 

However,  for  the  conquest  of  women  and  master- 
pieces it  is  better,  to  be  both  rich  and  passionate. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

M.  Bergeret  showed  us  his  old  books. 

/  love  them  tenderly,  because  they  bring  forget- 
fulness  of  the  present  and  a  little  inoffensive  madness 
to  those  who  consult  them.  This  little  grain  of 
madness  affects  even  those  who  handle  them  with- 
out reading  them.  For  instance,  I  don't  know  a 
gayer  spirit  than  the  excellent  Sims,  the  bookseller 
in  the  Rue  de  Seine,  who  sold  me  most  of  these* 
folios.  He  has  two  equally  praiseworthy  loves: 
the  best  ancient  authors  and  the  generous  wines  of 
France.  When  he  confides  in  me  that  he  has  just 
made  an  extraordinary  discovery,  I  never  know  if 
he  means  a  dusty  bottle  or  exceedingly  rare  in- 
cunabula. He  often  goes  about  strangely  dressed, 
but  that  comes  from  reasoned  principles.  He  holds 
that  the  order  in  which  we  put  on  our  clothes  is  a 
pure  convention.  For  his  part,  on  getting  up  in 
the  morning  he  picks  up  his  things  haphazardly 
from  the  chair.  He  may  happen  to  put  on  his 
coat  first,  then  his  shirt,  then  his  waistcoat,  and 
finally  his  flannel  undervest  on  top  of  everything. 

"What  does  it  matter,"  he  says,  "provided  the 
amount  of  clothes  is  the  same?  Am  I  not  just  as 
warm?" 

Although  this  a  specious  theory,  I  do  not  at- 
tempt to  refute  it,  for  it  would  be  too  much  trouble 
to  convince  him.  The  other  day  I  found  him  all 

£243 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

stuffed  up  with  a  cold,  sneezing,  coughing,  wiping 
his  nose,  puffing  and  snorting;  his  nose  and  eyes 
running  like  fountains. 

"Well,  my  good  Sims,  where  did  you  catch  that 
dreadful  cold?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  have  not  been  careless  in  any 
way,  not  in  the  least." 

Thereupon  he  told  me  that  he  had  bought  a  big 
lot  of  books  the  previous  evening.  But  there  was 
no  room  in  his  shop,  so  he  had  to  take  them  up  to 
his  bedroom,  which  was  already  very  full.  He  had 
even  been  obliged  to  pile  up  a  great  many  on  the 
very  foot  of  his  bed.  The  drawback  of  this 
stratagem  he  discovered  when  he  was  going  to 
sleep.  Fortunately,  the  head  of  his  bed  was  against 
the  window,  and  the  window  looked  out  upon  the 
roof.  He  could  think  of  nothing  better  than  to 
open  the  window  and  pull  up  his  mattress  a  little 
onto  the  slates.  After  that,  with  his  body  in  the 
room  and  his  head  outside,  the  good  man  fell  into 
a  childlike  slumber. 

Alas,  what  should  happen  but,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  a  furious  storm  broke  out,  and  all  the 
cataracts  of  heaven  descended  upon  his  head. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  I.  "So  that  is  how  you  caught 
cold." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  .  .  .  he  inquired. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

What  I  like  about  Sims  is  that  he  accepts  the 
most  convincing  arguments  only  with  extreme 
caution. 

France  reverently  took  from  a  shelf  a  very 
beautiful  book,  covered  with  parchment,  golden- 
brown,  like  old  ivory,  and  decorated  with  the 
figures  of  fabulous  animals. 

This  Vasan  is  my  pride,  he  said. 

He  turned  the  pages  and  came  to  the  portrait  of 
Paolo  Uccello. 

This  is  the  painter  whose  wife  gently  reproached 
him  with  working  too  slowly. 

"I  must  have  time"  the  artist  said,  "to  establish 
the  perspective  of  my  pictures." 

"Yes,  Paolo,"  the  poor  woman  protested,  "but 
you  are  drawing  for  us  the  perspective  of  destitu- 
tion and  the  grave" 

She  was  right,  and  he  was  not  wrong.  The 
eternal  conflict  between  the  scruples  of  the  artist 
and  harsh  reality. 

Thus  M.  Bergeret  plunged  into  the  peaceful 
fairyland  of  past  centuries  far  from  contemporary 
cares,  daily  disappointments,  and  the  threats  which 
were  rising  on  the  horizon.  By  means  of  pictures, 
sculptures  and  books  he  was  in  communication  with 
the  dead.  With  these  written  signs,  these  painted 
and  carved  forms,  he  endeavoured  to  penetrate  to 
the  souls  of  other  times.  Eager  for  knowledge, 


The  Hermitage  of  the  Sage 

he  annexed  innumerable  days  that  were  gone  to  the 
hours  he  was  living.  According  to  his  custom,  it 
was  in  his  dressing  gown  and  slippers  that  he 
accomplished  an  immense  circuit  through  time, 
bringing  back  fruitful  teaching  for  us. 

Josephine  came  in  to  announce  two  delegates 
from  a  Socialist  committee. 

One  was  a  big  red-faced  man,  conventionally 
dressed,  but  wearing  a  soft  shirt  and  no  tie,  for 
his  powerful  neck  could  stand  no  other  restraint. 
He  was  a  blacksmith.  He  apologized  for  not  offer- 
ing his  right  hand,  which  was  bandaged,  because 
it  had  been  injured  in  some  workshop  job.  His 
companion,  small  and  sickly,  with  burning  eyes  and 
tousled  hair,  was  a  school  teacher.  The  one  in 
his  brutal  strength,  and  the  other  in  his  feverish 
weakness,  personified  the  people,  condemned  to 
laborious  drudgery  of  mind  and  body.  They  con- 
gratulated France  on  having  spoken  at  a  recent 
meeting. 

His  speech  had  raised  storms  of  applause,  but  it 
had  been  continually  punctuated  by  shouts  of  "Long 
live  anarchy!"  This  compromising  cry  had  been 
shouted  in  chorus  by  a  group  of  police  spies  ob- 
viously recognizable  by  their  huge  moustaches,  their 
degraded  faces  and  their  hobnailed  boots.  The 
two  delegates  warmly  condemned  the  tactics  of  the 
agents  provocateurs. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

They  asked  the  author  to  take  the  chair  at 
another  meeting. 

He  looked  at  his  slippers,  patted  his  Vasari,  gave 
a  furtive  and  benevolent  glance  at  the  little  Tanagra 
Cupid.  Then  his  dark  eyes  rested  for  a  moment 
on  the  bandaged  wrist  of  the  blacksmith  and  the 
hollow  cheeks  of  the  schoolmaster. 

/  will  go,  he  said. 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 

As  every  election  to  the  Academy  approaches  the 
candidates  pay  their  prescribed  visit  to  M.  Bergeret. 
They  know  that  he  has  not  gone  to  that  corner  of 
the  quays  this  many  a  year,  and  that  he  never  votes. 
Nevertheless  out  of  deference  to  h'is  fame  they 
solicit  his  vote.  It  is  a  touching  custom  which 
none  seeks  to  evade,  not  even  the  reverend  clergy. 
Yet,  they  would  have  valid  reasons  for  not  com- 
mitting themselves  with  this  pontiff  of  incredulity. 
But  perhaps  his  conversation  offers  them  the  attrac- 
tion of  forbidden  fruit?  Perhaps  they  hope  in  a 
few  eloquent  words  to  cast  into  his  soul  the  seeds 
of  a  startling  conversion?  It  was  thus  that  the 
severe  Paphnuce  once  upon  a  time  undertook  to 
bring  the  frolicsome  Thais  to  God. 

When  Cardinal  Cabrieres,  who  was  still  only  a 
Monsignor,  but  was  soon  to  become  His  Eminence, 
craved  a  chair  in  the  Academy,  he  called  like  the 
others  at  the  hermitage  of  the  Villa  Said. 

Old  Josephine,  with  her  teeth  of  gold,  ushered 
him  in  with  every  mark  of  respect. 

"Sir,"  said  the  bishop  brusquely,  "I  will  admit 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

to  you  frankly  that  I  have  not  read  your  novels." 

"Monsignor"  replied  France,  with  sacerdotal 
unction,  "I  must  confess  to  you  in  all  frankness  that 
I  have  not  read  your  decrees." 

The  ice  having  been  broken  in  this  way,  the 
conversation  became  cordial.  The  prelate  pater- 
nally reminded  France  that  some  great  writers 
had  sung  the  praise  of  the  Almighty.  He  cited 
Chateaubriand. 

France  retorted  that,  in  effect,  the  harmonious 
viscount  had  beautifully  celebrated  the  decorative 
side  of  Catholicism,  but  above  all  he  had  dusted 
the  furniture  and  polished  the  ecclesiastical  plate, 
like  a  beadle  or  a  chair  attendant,  and  that,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  rather  neglected  dogma. 

He  loved  the  majesty  of  the  cathedrals  and  the 
splendor  of  the  ritual  pomps.  But  1,  too,  love 
them,  Monsignor. 

With  a  devout  gesture  he  pointed  to  the  golden 
stoles,  the  coruscating  chasubles,  the  bright  silver 
incense  boxes,  which  were  glittering  in  their  glass 
cases. 

Chateaubriand  venerated  the  sacred  authors.  I 
also  feast  upon  them,  Monsignor. 

On  the  shelves  of  the  library,  in  the  place  of 
honour,  he  showed  him  the  Eagle  of  Meaux  and  the 
Swan  of  Cambrai  dwelling  happily  together. 

He  looked  as  if  butter  would  not  melt  in  his 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 

mouth.  Monsignor  de  Cabrieres  withdrew,  con- 
vinced that,  in  some  respects,  the  most  fervent  of 
believers  would  gain  by  taking  lessons  from  Anatole 
France. 

The  following  Wednesday — for  it  was  on  Wed- 
nesday that  M.  Bergeret  received  his  intimate 
friends — they  spoke  of  Monsignor  Duchesne  who 
was  the  rival  candidate  of  Monsignor  de  Cabrieres 
for  the  Academy.  The  rivalry  of  the  two  prelates 
amused  the  onlookers.  Bets  were  taken.  Two  to 
one  was  laid  on  Monsignor  Duchesne.  The  sym- 
pathies of  the  academic  Left  wing  for  the  one  and 
of  the  Right  for  the  other  were  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ance. Some  one  told  the  story  of  the  scurvy  trick 
played  by  the  author  of  Les  Origines  de  la  France 
chretienne  on  Monsignor  de  Cabrieres,  who  was  a 
splendid  orator,  but  had  written  practically  nothing. 

Monsignor  Duchesne  had  gone  into  several  book- 
shops near  the  Mazarin  Palace,  and  had  said  in  the 
most  innocent  tones: 

"Give  me  the  complete  works  of  Monsignor  de 
Cabrieres." 

The  shop  assistants  were  amazed. 

"The  complete  works  of  Monsignor  de  Cabrieres? 
We  haven't  them  in  stock." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  must  have.     Have  a  lookl" 

They  searched  and  then: 

"We  cannot  find  them,  Monsignor." 


The  Opinions  of  Anatolc  France 

"Come  now,  Monsignor  de  Cabrieres  is  a  candi- 
date for  the  Academy.  He  must  have  surely  writ- 
ten something,  and  I  want  particularly  to  read  his 
books.  Look  again,  please." 

Great  commotion.  The  owners  and  their  assist- 
ants searched  everywhere,  moving  piles  of  books 
and  climbing  ladders.  But  still  there  was  nothing. 

"We  are  very  sorry,  Monsignor!" 

"So  am  I!     So  am  1 1" 

As  he  went  out  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven. 

"Where,  oh,  where  shall  I  find  the  complete 
works  of  Monsignor  de  Cabrieres?" 

This  prank,  duly  reported  by  the  booksellers,  de- 
lighted the  honourable  members  of  the  Academy. 
That  morning  some  one  had  related  the  story,  while 
it  was  still  new,  to  M.  Bergeret,  who  smacked  his 
lips  over  it,  and  said: 

Monsignor  Duchesne  has  always  had  a  fine  sense 
of  humour.  Before  he  received  the  amethyst  ring, 
he  used  to  live  on  the  third  floor,  on  the  Quai 
Voltaire.  One  of  his  archaeological  colleagues 
called  on  him,  and  in  a  transport  of  joy  announced 
that  he  had  discovered  a  new  saint  while  decipher- 
ing some  old  cartularies. 

"Pshaw!"  cried  the  Abbe  bluntly,  "your  saint  is 
legendary;  like  so  many  others,  my  dear  Sir,  he  has 
never  existed"  And  he  learnedly  set  forth  the 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 

reasons  for  this  opinion.  They  simply  exasperated 
his  visitor. 

"Sir"  he  said  furiously,  <(your  rudeness  betrays 
your  Breton  origins.  You  remind  me  of  your  an- 
cestors, savage  Armorican  pirates,  who  ransacked 
the  shores  of  the  sea.  No  more  of  this!  All  I 
ask  of  you  is  to  tell  me  where  is  the  nearest  landing 
place  of  the  river  steamboats." 

"Sir"  the  Abbe  answered  haughtily,  "I  should  be 
insulting  the  dignity  of  my  ancestors  were  I  to 
trouble  about  fresh  water  craft" 

You  will  agree  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
subtlety  in  this  retort  of  an  of  ended  archaeologist. 

One  of  us  recalled  the  witticisms  attributed  to 
Monsignor  Duchesne,  the  joke,  for  instance,  about 
the  naive  politics  of  Pope  Pius  X. 

"He  is  a  Venetian  gondolier  in  the  barque  of 
Saint  Peter.  He  guides  it  a  la  gaffe."1  And  the 
other  one. 

"Have  you  read  the  latest  Bull:  Digitus  in 
oculo?" 

It  is  not  at  all  certain,  Anatole  France  resumed, 
that  those  jokes  are  his.  But,  to  him  that  hath 
shall  be  given.  No  doubt  Monsignor  Duchesne  is 
too  witty  for  a  priest,  and  such  flights  may  perhaps 

1  An  untranslatable  pun  on  the  word  "Gaffe,"  which  means 
"blunder"  as  well  as  the  pole  with  which  a  gondolier  steers  his 
craft. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

do  him  wrong.  But  he  has  more  serious  matters 
to  worry  about. 

One  day,  when  he  was  walking  in  Rome  with  the 
famous  archaeologist  Rossi  they  came  to  a  halt 
in  front  of  a  beautiful  marble  tablet,  recently 
affixed,  and  on  which  was  engraved  in  Latin:  "On 
this  spot  the  apostles  Saint  Peter  and  Saint  Paul 
met"  The  historical  incredibility  of  the  event 
made  them  shake  their  heads.  Above  this  sentence 
they  read  in  Italian:  "It  is  strictly  forbidden  to  de- 
posit rubbish  against  this  wall." 

"A  wise  order"  said  Rossi. 

".  .  .  but  not  very  strictly  obeyed!"  added  the 
Abbe,  pointing  with  his  walking  stick  to  the  hagio- 
graphical  inscription."  And  the  two  interlocutors 
resumed  their  walk. 

Anatole  France  continued. 

The  physical  resemblance  between  Monsignor 
Duchesne  and  Voltaire  is  striking.  I  conclude  .  .  . 
that  Voltaire  was  a  holy  man. 

But,  some  one  asked,  how  does  Monsignor 
Duchesne  reconcile  his  faith  and  his  erudition? 

FRA.NCE. — He  does  not  reconcile  them.  Why 
should  he  reconcile  them?  He  is  at  the  same  time 
very  learned  and  very  pious.  His  Catholicism  and 
his  archaeology  dwell  together  in  his  soul  as  mutual 
strangers.  They,  are  separated  by  a  water-tight 
compartment.  And  do  not  imagine  that  his  case  is 

C363 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 

exceptional.  Beneath  the  skull  of  every  one  of  us  a 
crowd  of  contradictory  ideas  are  sheltered.  We 
are  attached  to  them  all  equally  and  they  get  on 
very  well  because  we  never  allow  them  to  meet. 

At  this  moment  M.  Edmond  Haraucourt  entered, 
the  truculent  poet  of  La  Legende  des  sexes,  and 
keeper  of  the  Cluny  Museum. 

He  began  with  a  few  compliments. 

"My  dear  Master,"  he  said,  "I  am  delighted  to 
see  you  looking  so  young." 

FRANCE. — Ha  ha!  I  am  growing  old,  all  the 
same. 

"Oh  Master,"  protested  a  very  nice  young  man 
who  had  not  previously  opened  his  mouth,  "if  you 
are  growing  old  there  is  not  the  slightest  sign  of 
it  in  your  recent  books." 

FRANCE,  (maliciously) — Good  heavens!  In  my 
books!  That  would  be  the  last  straw!  .  .  .  There 
are,  alas!  other  signs  by  which  I  recognize  my 
enemy,  Old  Age.  You  will  know  them  later,  very 
much  later,  young  man,  you  who  rise  triumphantly 
every  morning.  (Turning  to  M.  Haraucourt.) 

Well,  my  dear  keeper,  how  is  your  Museum? 

HARAUCOURT. — "I  keep  weeding  it  out,  remov- 
ing the  parasites.  .  .  ." 

FRANCE. — What? 

HARAUCOURT. — "It  is  full  of  fakes." 

C373 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

FjRANCB. — Yes,  indeed.     I  suspected  as   much. 

HARAUCOURT. — "Thanks  to  strict  supervision, 
I  am  separating  the  wheat  from  the  chaff.  Every- 
thing that  looks  dubious  I  remove  from  the  Museum 
to  the  keeper's  house." 

FRANCE. — An  excellent  idea. 

HARAUCOURT. — "The  furniture  which  I  have 
got  together  in  this  way  for  my  personal  use  is  plen- 
tiful and  hideous.  My  apartment  has  become  the 
sanctuary  of  fakes,  the  Pantheon  of  cheap  imita- 
tions. But  I  shall  have  to  modify  my  critical 
rigour,  for  my  drawing-room,  dining-room,  bed- 
room and  even  my  W.  C.  are  packed  with  Boulle 
cabinets,  Louis  XIII  clocks,  and  Henry  II  buffets 
all  genuine  XlXth  century."  2 

We  were  all  laughing. 

M.  Haraucourt  continued: 

"Lately  I  had  the  most  tremendous  and  un- 
welcome surprise.  You  know  our  famous  fourteenth 
century  coffer,  so  greatly  praised  in  the  handbooks 
on  art?" 

FRANCE. — I  certainly  do. 

HARAUCOURT. — "It  is  a  fake!" 

FRANCE. — Well,  I  never! 

a  This  heterogeneous  furniture  has  since  been  distributed  once 
more  through  thf  Museum  for  M.  Haraucourt  does  not  live  there 
any  longer. 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 

HARAUCOURT. — "This  is  the  way  I  discovered 
it.  I  wanted  to  celebrate  this  coffer  in  verse,  for  it 
inspired  me.  On  the  wooden  panels  some  designs 
are  carved  which  I  thought  I  recognized  as  the 
Joyes  du  Manage.  A  married  couple  are  squab- 
bling and  abusing  one  another.  The  good  wives  are 
decorating  their  husbands'  foreheads  with  luxurious 
branches.  I  had  tuned  my  lute  and  was  strumming 
a  prelude,  when  I  noticed  on  two  sides  heroic  scenes 
which  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  others. 
There  were  knights,  with  lances  in  their  hands, 
setting  out  for  war.  I  know,  of  course,  that  mili- 
tary men  can  gallantly  intervene  in  civilian  house- 
holds, but  there  were  really  too  many  of  these 
paladins.  I  began  to  smell  a  rat.  I  discovered 
that  my  coffer  is  an  artificial  tinkering  together  of 
scraps  and  odds  and  ends.  Only  a  third  of  the  cover 
goes  back  to  the  fourteenth  century.  You  can  im- 
agine how  I  dropped  my  lute.  But  for  heaven's 
sake  gentlemen,  be  discreet!  This  coffer  is  our 
glory.  It  is  so  famous  that  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  deprive  the  public  of  it." 

France  laughed  until  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks. 

"You  would  never  guess,"  Haraucourt  resumed, 
"that  I  am  paying  you  my  visit  as  a  candidate  for 
the  Academy." 

C393 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

FRANCE. — Do  you  not  know  that  I  never  put 
my  foot  inside  the  Mazarin  Palace?  3 

HARAUCOURT. — "Come,  my  dear  Master,  could 
you  not.  .  .  . 

FRANCE. — Listen,  my  friend.  Even  the  ushers 
would  not  recognize  me.  By  the  way,  here  is  a 
good  idea.  .  .  .  Let  me  introduce  my  Russian 
friend  Semenoff.  .  .  . 

SEMENOFF. —  (A  giant  with  a  great  black  beard, 
bows  to  M.  Haraucourt.) 

"Monsieur.  .  .  ." 

HARAUCOURT  (bowing) — ."Monsieur.  .  .  ." 

FRANCE. — My  friend  Semenoff  could  go  in  my 
place  to  the  Academy,  and  say  that  he  is  Anatole 
France.  .  .  .  No;  seriously,  it  would  not  look  well 
if  I  were  to  go  there  only  for  the  purpose  of  voting. 

HARACOURT. — "At  all  events,  thanks  for  your 
platonic  vote !" 

FRANCE. — My  poor  friend! — You  must  cer- 
tainly have  more  effective  supporters.  Come,  who 
are  they?  Let  us  run  over  the  names  of  the 
Academicians.  The  worst  of  it  is  one  hardly  knows 
them. 

HARAUCOURT. — "I  give  you  my  word!     Every 

3  During  the  viar,  as  a  mark  of  respect  to  the  sacred  union,  M. 
Anatole  France  appeared  at  the  Academy.  But  he  soon  forgot 
to  find  his  way  back. 

1401 


Candidates  for  the  Academy 

time  there  is  a  vacancy  half-a-dozen  poor  devils  can 
be  counted  in  Paris,  who  learn  off  the  complete  list 
of  the  Immortals,  and  who  go  from  apartment  to 
apartment,  ringing  the  bell." 

FRANCE. — In  order  to  console  you,  shall  I  re- 
call the  delightful  pages  in  the  "Journal  d'un 
Poete,"  in  which  Vigny  has  recorded  his  visit  to 
Royer-Collard? 

HARAUCOURT. — "I  know  them  by  heart.  What 
delicious  fooling!  Old  Royer-Collard  wrapped 
up  in  his  dressing  gown  like  Geronte,  with  a 
black  wig  on  his  head,  half  opens  the  door  to 
Vigny  and  says :  'I  cannot  be  seen,  Sir,  I  have  just 
taken  a  dose  of  medicine.'  And  he  adds:  'Be- 
tween ourselves,  you  have  not  the  slightest  chance 
— Besides,  I  know  nothing  of  your  works,  for  I 
have  read  nothing  now  for  thirty  years.  ...  At 
my  age,  Sir,  one  no  longer  reads.  One  re-reads.' ' 

FRANCE. — Well,  my  dear  friend,  you  see  to 
what  humiliation  the  candidature  of  the  noble 
Figny  exposed  his  pride  .  .  .  May  his  example  help 
you  patiently  to  bear  your  own  tribulations. 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 

"It  is  certain,"  Haraucourt  resumed,  "that 
nothing  has  changed  since  Vigny's  time.  He  com- 
plained that  Royer-Collard  had  not  read  his  works, 
and  in  the  course  of  my  visits  I  perceive  that  very 
few  of  the  Immortals  are  acquainted  with  my  lit- 
erary impedimenta.  It  is  most  depressing!" 

FRANCE. — What  did  you  expect?  Never,  never 
in  the  world,  have  the  Academicians  opened  the 
works  of  the  candidates.  Look  at  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  the  blasphemer  who  wrote  "Poemes  Bar- 
bares" ;  he  was  elected  as  a  Christian  poet,  I  assure 
you.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  I  followed 
his  election  minute  by  minute.  I  was  secretary  of 
the  Senate  Library  when  he  was  Chief  Librarian. 

It  was  thanks  to  the  Due  de  Broglie  that  he  waj 
elected.  The  Due  de  Broglie  knew  that  Leconte 
de  Lisle  was  a  poet.  How  did  he  find  that  out? 
That  is  what  I  am  still  wondering. 

"I  have  been  told  about  a  poet,"  he  confided, 
to  his  colleagues. 

C45H 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Here  France's  voice  became  piping  and  tremu- 
lous in  imitation  of  the  Due  de  Broglie. 

"This  poet  is  certainly  a  spiritualist,  for  all  poets 
are.  Spiritualism  and  Christianity,  are  one  and 
the  same.  This  chap  Leconte  de  Lisle  is,  there- 
fore, a  Christian,  a  good  Christian,  an  excellent 
Christian.  I  am  voting  for  him.  You  do  like- 
wise" 

You  must  understand  that  the  Due  de  Broglie 
carried  Christianity  to  the  point  of  crime.  He  had 
an  amorous  temperament.  One  day  his  doctor  ad- 
vised him  to  take  a  mistress  in  order  to  spare  his 
wife,  whose  health  was  very  precarious. 

The  Due  reflected  for  a  while  and  then  said 
suddenly. 

"Well,  after  all,  my  dear  doctor,  I  had  much 
rather  imperil  my  wife  than  my  immortal  soul." 

Furthermore,  the  election  of  Leconte  de  Lisle 
was  facilitated  by  a  fortunate  error.  The  majority 
of  the  immortals  who  voted  in  his  favour,  I  am 
told,  attributed  to  him  Sully  Prudhomme's  "Le  Vase 
brise". 

M.  Haraucourt's  face  expressed  the  utmost  be- 
wilderment. 

FRANCE. — But  most  of  the  time,  as  you  know, 
my  dear  friend,  as  well  as  I  do,  the  elections  are 
purely  political. 

C463 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 

HARAUCOURT. — Yet,  my  dear  Master,  your  own 
was  not ! 

FRANCE. — On  the  contrary,  it  was  so  more  than 
any  other.  But  the  story  is  worth  telling  in  detail. 

Ludovic  Halevy,  who  loved  me  like  a  brother, 
kept  constantly  saying:  "Why  sulk  at  the  Academy? 
It  is  the  thing  to  join.  It  looks  well  on  the  covers 
of  one's  books.  Present  yourself.  Do  it  for  my 
sake.  I  am  ashamed  to  be  an  Immortal  when 
you  are  not."  Well,  the  end  of  it  was  that  I  drew 
up  my  letter  of  application,  and  went  to  read  it  to 
him. 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  he,  "your  letter  is  not  in  due 
form.  Give  it  to  me  and  I  will  arrange  it  prop- 
erly." And  he  deliberately  inserted  three  or  four 
fearful  mistakes  in  French,  which  stood  out  like 
poppies  in  a  corn  field. 

"There,"  he  said,  "is  the  style  required.  But 
that  is  not  everything.  We  must  find  out  who  will 
vote  for  you." 

He  drew  up  a  list  and  proceeded  to  tick  of  a 
great  number  of  names. 

"Hm!  Hm!"  he  muttered,  "it  will  not  be  easy. 
These  damned  aristocrats  will  make  wry  faces  when 
they  have  to  swallow  you" 

I  began  making  my  calls.  Halevy  directed  op- 
erations. Every  morning  I  received  a  note:  "Go 

C473 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

'to  So  and  So!  Call  again  on  So  and  So!"  All 
the  time  he  was  consumed  with  anxiety.  Finally, 
one  day  when  I  saw  him  he  was  radiant. 

"That's  all  right!"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands, 
"we've  got  them!" 

"Got  whom?" 

"The  aristocrats!  Listen.  There  are  two  seats 
vacant.  The  extreme  Left  of  the  Academy  is 
putting  you  forward  for  one.  The  aristocrats  have 
a  candidate  for  the  other,  a  war  thy  nobleman  of 
ancient  lineage,  but  an  absolute  illiterate.  They 
will  not  find  it  easy  to  push  him  through. 

"We  said  to  them:  Do  you  want  the  extreme 
Left  to  vote  for  your  nobleman?  Then,  vote 
for  the  anarchist,  Anatole  France.  One  good  turn 
deserves  another.  It's  a  bargain!  They  agreed. 
I  am  delighted.  Now,  call  on  the  nobility.  They 
have  been  warned.  But  for  heaven's  sake,  don't 
talk  politics  or  religion!  Say:  What  bright  sun- 
shine! or:  It  is  windy!  It  is  raining!  It  is  driz- 
gling!  Ask  the  lady  of  the  house  how  her  little  dog 
is  and  her  pet  monkeys.  The  noblemen  have  been 
similarly  instructed." 

Everything  turned  out  as  he  had  foreseen.  The 
anarchist  and  the  nobleman  were  elected  on  the 
same  day  and  by  the  same  votes.  It  was  quite  shame- 
less. 

[483 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 

HARAUCOURT. — It  does  not  matter.  The  Acad- 
emy honoured  itself  by  electing  you. 

FRANCE  (shaking  hands  with  him) — Thanks 
my  dear  friend.  But  that  is  not  all.  There  is  a 
sequel. 

Amongst  the  votes  promised  to  me,  only  one  was 
missing,  Henri  de  Bornier's.  As  this  little  act  of 
treason  was  divulged,  he  tried  to  apologize  to  me. 

"Dear  Monsieur  France,"  he  began,  "I  did  not 
vote  for  you." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur  de  Bornier,  you 
did  vote  for  me." 

"No,  I  did  not"  he  replied,  somewhat  taken 
aback. 

"But,  you  did.  You  are  a  gentleman,  are  you 
not,  Monsieur  de  Bournier?" 

"Certainly,  but.  .  .  ." 

"Have  you  not  sung  the  praise  of  honour?" 

"No  doubt,  but.  .  .  ." 

"It  is,  therefore,  impossible  for  you  to  have 
broken  your  word.  You  did  vote  for  me,  Monsieur 
de  Bornier,  you  did." 

"He  went  of  like  a  dog  with  its  tail  between  its 
legs.  But  my  vengeance  was  not  complete..  .1  was 
only  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  satisfy  my  thirst 
for  revenge.  The  opportunity  came  when  we  were 
in  session  on  the  dictionary.  .  .  . 

My   dear  Haraucourt,   you   will  certainly    take 

1:49:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

part  in  the  dictionary  sessions.  For  you  will  be 
elected.  One  always  gets  what  one  ardently  de- 
sires. 

HARAUCOURT. — You  never  can  tell! 

FRANCE. — You  need  have  no  doubts  on  that 
score!  And  I  hope  you  will  be  pleasantly  diverted 
by  these  famous  sessions. 

We  never  got  any  further  than  the  letter  A,  for 
they  do  a  very  short  day's  work  at  the  Academy. 
The  entry  after  Anneau  (Ring)  was  being  made, 
and  the  Due  de  Broglie  was  presiding.  By  a  major- 
ity of  votes  the  following  definition  was  adopted: 

Ring:  a  piece  of  metal  circular  in  shape. 

"Smoke  ring,"  I  whispered  insidiously. 

These  words  caused  some  disturbance,  but  a 
grammarian  replied  with  great  assurance: 

"All  right.  We  will  put:  by  catachresis:  smoke 
ring." 

Catachresis  seemed  to  be  a  sublime  idea. 

As  an  example,  the  Ring  of  Saturn  was  quoted. 

"The  astronomers  have  discovered  several  of 
them,"  I  observed.  "So  you  will  have  to  say  the- 
Rings  of  Saturn." 

"No,"  they  said,  "it  is  customary  to  say  the  Ring 
of  Saturn.  We  are  here  only  to  ratify  usage.  So 
much  the  worse  for  your  astronomers!" 

This  annoyed  me,  and  it  was  then  that  I  con- 
ceived an  infernal  idea. 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 

The  chair  next  to  mine  just  happened  to  be  dear 
old  Bornier's.  He  was  snoring  loudly.  I  nudged 
him  with  my  elbow: 

"They  are  forgetting  Hans  Carvel's  ring" 

"What!"  he  cried,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

At  this  point  France  opened  a  parenthesis. 

/  suppose  you  all  know  that  ribald  story.  You 
have  read  it  in  the  third  book  of  Pantagruel.  The 
good  man,  Hans  Carvel,  married  late  in  life  to  a 
frisky  wench,  was  tortured  by  jealousy.  One  night 
when  he  was  sleeping  beside  his  wife,  the  devil  came 
in  a  dream  and  offered  him  a  lovely  ring:  "Put  this 
ring  on  your  finger.  As  long  as  it  is  there,  your 
spouse  will  be  faithful." 

In  his  joy  the  good  man  wakes  up,  and  hears  his 
wife  saying:  "Stop!  Stop!  That  will  do!" 

Accustomed  to  unsheath  Durandal,  to  sound  the 
horn  of  battle,  to  bestride  Pegasus,  and  to  prance 
in  the  clouds,  Henri  de  Bornier  had  never  read 
Rabelais. 

I  repeated  to  him: 

"They  are  forgetting  Hans  Carvel's  ring.  You 
had  better  tell  them." 

Immediately  the  worthy  old  gentleman  cried  out 
in  his  innocence: 

"Gentlemen,  you  are  forgetting  Hans  Carvel's 
ring." 

There  were  a  few  laughs. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

The  Due  de  Broglie,  who  knew  his  Rabelais  per- 
fectly, but  who  was  of  a  serious  disposition,  checked 
this  unseemly  laughter  at  once. 

"Let  us  continue,  gentlemen,"  he  said  sharply. 

A  moment  later  I  leaned  over  to  Bornier: 

"They  did  not  hear  you,"  said  I. 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,"  he  cried,  very  much 
agitated,  "you  are  forgetting  Hans  Carvel's 
ring" 

This  time  there  was  a  storm  of  laughter. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  them?"  Bor- 
nier asked  me. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied  hypocritically. 

The  Due  de  Broglie  was  furious  and  declared  the 
session  at  an  end. 

As  we  went  out,  he  came  beside  me: 

"An  extraordinary  man,  Bornier  is,"  he  said  to 
me.  "A  fine  name  of  good  ancestry,  an  old  Peri- 
gord  family,  but  he  is  too  fond  of  the  bottle.  And, 
by  Jove,  when  he  has  had  a  glass  too  many,  he  tells 
dirty  stories  that  would  bring  a  blush  to  the  face  of 
a  brass  monkey" 

That,  my  dear  Haraucourt,  is  the  veracious  story 
of  my  election  to  the  French  Academy,  and  of  the 
curious  episode  connected  therewith. 

France  continued: 

The  Immortals  read  nothing.  They  crown  their 
new  colleagues  without  having  ever  opened  their 

C523 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 

works.  They  distribute  literary  -prizes  on  the  same 
principle,  for  they  find  it  works.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, it  leads  them  into  some  strange  blunders. 

Do  you  know,  my  dear  Haraucourt,  the  story  of 
a  poetry  prize  awarded  to  Louise  Coletf 

"No,"  he  replied. 

He  would  have  said  no,  even  if  he  had  known  it, 
for  he  is  a  man  of  courtesy. 

FRANCE. — Under  the  Second  Empire  Louise 
Colet  was  a  majestic  female,  very  beautiful,  rather 
a  virago,  with  a  man's  voice,  and  eyes  which  she 
knew  how  to  use.  She  was  married  to  a  very  ugly 
little  dwarf,  who  played  the  violin  at  the  Conserv- 
atory. The  great  philosopher,  Victor  Cousin, 
when  he  saw  her,  discovered  in  her  the  Good,  the 
True  and  the  Beautiful.  He  reduced  the  little 
violinist  to  the  same  plight  as  Sganarelle.  It  was 
the  correct  thing  to  do. 

Louise  Colet  used  to  twang  the  lyre.  She  asked 
her  metaphysician  to  have  some  poetry  prizes 
awarded  her  by  the  French  Academy.  How  could 
Cousin  refuse  such  a  modest  recompense  for  divine 
hours'?  So,  every  year  that  God  granted,  Louise 
Colet  used  to  get  her  prize.  It  was  as  regular  as 
clockwork. 

On  one  occasion  the  good  lady  began  rather  late 
to  manufacture  her  piece  for  the  competition.  The 
night  before  the  last  day  for  receiving  entries  she 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

had  not  hatched  a  single  line.  She  was  greatly  em- 
barrassed. 

That  night  there  were  some  artists  and  writers  at 
her  dinner  table.  It  chanced  that  Flaubert  and 
Bouilhet  had  come.  They  were  fond  of  her,  be- 
cause she  was  an  amiable  creature  and  made  every- 
body feel  comfortable.  After  dinner  she  shoved 
them  into  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room. 

"My  dears,"  said  she,  "you  must  save  my  life." 
And  she  revealed  her  predicament. 

"Now  you  must  be  very  nice.  Follow  me  into 
my  study.  .  .  .  This  way.  .  .  .  Plant  yourselves  in 
those  two  excellent  armchairs,  and  before  midnight 
run  me  of  two  hundred  lines  on  Immortality.  That 
is  the  prescribed  subject.  Here  are  some  paper 
and  ink.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  was  nearly  forgetting!  You 
will  find  tobacco  and  brandy  in  this  cupboard."  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  her  custom  to  smoke  and 
drink  like  a  trooper. 

Then  she  rejoined  her  other  guests. 

The  two  friends  smoked  and  drank  and  chatted. 

"By  the  way,"  cried  Bouilhet  towards  tltvtn 
o'clock,  "what  about  Immortality?" 

"Oh,  damn!"  replied  Flaubert. 

And  they  returned  to  the  brandy. 

At  a  quarter  to  twelve  Bouilhet  begged  Flaubert 
to  begin  to  think  about  Immortality.  Flaubert  was 
still  reluctant,  but  suddenly,  seizing  a  copy  of  La- 

C543 


On  Becoming  An  Academician 

marline  on  a  shelf,  he  opened  it  at  random.  "Write 
this!"  he  ordered  imperiously.  And  without  stop- 
ping he  dictated  two  hundred  lines  from  "Les  Har- 


monies/' 


When  it  was  finished: 

"Add  the  title:  Immortality!  .  .  .  Excellent! 

He  was  putting  "Les  Harmonies"  back  when 
Louise  Colet  appeared. 

"Is  it  finished,  my  treasures?" 

"Oh,  yes.     Certainly"  said  they,  very  lively. 

She  ran  over  the  sheets  of  manuscript  without 
recognizing  Lamartine. 

"You  did  not  over-exert  yourselves,"  said  she, 
"but  it  will  do,  all  the  same.  You  are  angels." 

She  gave  them  each  a  kiss.  She  presented  her 
poem  and  got  the  prize,  as  usual,  with  many  con- 
gratulations. The  lines  from  Lamartine  were 
printed  over  the  name  of  Louise  Colet.  Nobody 
was  any  the  wiser,  for  nobody  read  them. 

Flaubert  did  not  reveal  the  trick  until  very  long 
afterwards. 


Politics  in  the  Academy 


Politics  in  the  Academy 

"That  is  all  very  well,  so  far  as  the  prizes  of 
the  Academy  are  concerned,"  M.  Haraucourt  re- 
marked. "They  are  of  little  consequence,  and  I 
have  no  objection  to  the  Immortals  for  not  reading 
the  elucubrations  of  the  contestants.  But  when  it 
comes  to  electing  an  Academician,  it  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent matter." 

He  was  particularly  perturbed  by  the  interven- 
tion of  politics.  He  returned  to  this  subject  and 
deplored  it. 

FRANCE. — /  am  surprised  that  you  should  take 
this  to  heart.  After  all,  what  happens  in  the  Acad- 
emy is  nothing  new.  Writers  have  almost  always 
owed  their  success  to  politics. 

HARAUCOURT. — But  you  will  have  to  admit 
that  the  charm  and  power  of  their  style  has  had 
something  to  do  with  their  fame. 

FRANCE. — It  is  just  possible,  my  friend,  that  our 
ideas  on  the  subject  have  remained  rather  those  of 
the  class-room.  When  bespectacled  and  hide-bound 
old  pedants  at  school  made  us  translate  some  Greek 

C593 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

tragedy,  ("Oedipus  at  Colonus,"  for  example)  they 
used  to  say: 

"Note  that  charming  second  aorist.  Observe  the 
conciseness  of  that  genitive  absolute.  The  dignity 
of  that  optative  is  marvellous." 

They  used  to  din  hundreds  of  similar  remarks 
into  our  ears,  until  in  the  end  we  began  to  believe 
that  it  was  the  grammatical  perfection  of  Sophocles 
which  had  aroused  the  enthusiasm  of  his  contem- 
poraries. But  there  was  one  point  which  our 
gerund-grinders  overlooked,  namely,  when  Sophocles 
celebrated  the  name  of  Oedipus,  the  Theban  hero 
whom  the  Athenians  received  with  open  arms  when 
he  was  hooted  by  his  own  countrymen,  the  Greek 
dramatist's  intention  was  to  glorify  Athens  at  the 
expense  of  Thebes,  which  had  been  its  bitter  enemy 
during  the  Peloponnesian  war. 

Bearing  that  knowledge  in  mind  we  can  easily 
imagine  what  the  first  performance  of  "Oedipus  at 
Colonus"  was  like,  shortly  after  the  death  of  the 
aged  poet:  the  whole  audience  on  their  feet,  inter- 
rupting every  line  with  cheers,  hissing  the  Thebans 
and  stamping  in  frantic  applause  for  this  eulogy  of 
their  city.  And  thus  we  discover  the  real  reasons, 
the  political  reasons,  for  this  enthusiasm. 

When  our  venerable  pedagogues  used  to  comment 
upon  "The  Knights"  of  Aristophanes,  they  would 
carefully  analyse  the  parabasis  and  point  out  the 

Ko] 


Politics  in  the  Academy 

commutation,  the  anapests,  the  macron.  And  they 
taught  us  that  this  play  was  a  perfect  example  of  the 
style  known  as  Old  Comedy.  But  you  will  readily 
conceive  that  it  had  other  attractions  for  the  sailors 
of  Piraus.  What  delighted  them  was  to  see  Aris- 
tophanes grabbing  Comrade  Clean  by  the  seat  of 
the  trousers.  The  performance  was  punctuated 
with  laughs  and  shouts  and  slaps.  I  suspect  things 
were  pretty  rough.  In  a  word,  it  was  politics. 

You  will  have  to  reconcile  yourself  to  this,  my 
dear  Haraucourt.  More  often  than  not  politics 
and  literature  merge  into  one.  In  Rome  did  not 
gentle  Virgil  do  but  propaganda  for  Augustus? 
And  in  our  own  country  did  not  the  author  of  the 
Cid  become,  in  spite  of  himself,  the  adversary  of 
Richelieu?  Is  not  his  censorious  Emilie  a  flatter- 
ing portrait  of  the  Duchess  de  Chevreuse?  Was 
Moliere  not  the  champion  of  the  young  King  and  the 
hard-working  middle-class  against  the  disturbed  and 
dissatisfied  nobility?  People  praise  the  irony  of 
Voltaire,  the  sensitiveness  of  Diderot,  the  penetra- 
tion of  Montesquieu,  the  ruggedness  of  Rousseau. 
Their  style  is  excellent.  But,  would  they  have  re- 
ceived so  much  praise  if  their  works  had  not  been  in- 
exhaustible arsenals  of  political  argument?  What 
about  the  bewildering  word  juggling  of  Fictor 
Hugo,  the  precious  metal  of  his  tinkling  rhymes,  his 
bold  antitheses  of  black  and  white?  Have  they 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

done  as  much  for  his  glory  as  his  invectives  against 
Napoleon  the  Small?  Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow. 
You  must  admit  that  literature  has  very  little  to  do 
with  literary  reputations. 

HARAUCOURT. — Well,  isn't  that  absurd? 

FRANCE. — No,  indeed.  It  is  not  so  absurd.  Do 
you  think  that  it  shows  any  superiority  on  the  part 
of  scribblers  that  they  should  isolate  themselves  in 
some  little  corner  and  fumble  for  words,  rehash 
epithets  and  polish  phrases,  without  a  thought  for 
the  world  about  them?  I  think  it  is  rather  an  in- 
firmity. 

As  he  spoke,  we  thought  of  the  part  he  played  in 
the  famous  Dreyfus  Affair,  still  recent  at  the  time, 
of  his  Etudes  d'Histoire  contemporaine,  of  the  pas- 
sionate harangues  which  he  was  constantly  deliver- 
ing at  popular  meetings. 

It  is  right,  he  continued,  for  an  author  to  feel 
the  pangs  of  common  humanity,  and  sometimes  to 
intervene  in  the  quarrels  of  the  market-place.  Not 
that  I  think  he  should  fawn  on  any  party  or  have  a 
finger  in  the  electoral  pie.  I  expect  him  to  pre- 
serve the  independence  of  his  spirit,  to  dare  always 
to  tell  the  truth,  and  to  denounce  even  the  injustices 
committed  by  his  own  friends.  I  want  him  to  soar 
unfettered.  I  wish  his  opinions  to  be  hard  upon 
selfish  interests,  but  usually  regarded  as  chimerical, 
and  that  they  shail  have  no  chance  whatever  of  being 


Politics  in  the  Academy 

adopted  for  many  a  year.  So  far  from  spoiling  his 
style  courage  will  render  it  more  proud  and  virile. 

That,  my  dear  Haraucourtt  is  why  I  do  not  con- 
sider the  French  Academy  so  culpable  for  taking 
part  in  politics. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Master,"  said  one  of  us,  "it 
is  wrong  to  take  the  wrong  part." 

France  pushed  his  crimson  cap  onto  the  corner  of 
his  ear: 

Will  you  tell  me  what  exactly  distinguishes  the 
right  from  the  wrong  side  in  politics?  Oh,  yes!  I 
see.  .  .  .  Our  friends  are  on  the  right  side;  other 
people  are  on  the  wrong. 


C633 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

Anatole  France  was  just  on  the  point  of  publish- 
ing his  Jeanne  d'Arc.  It  had  cost  him  twenty  years 
of  hard  work.  .  .  .  Every  page  had  been  corrected, 
revised  and  rounded  off  like  a  piece  of  sculpture. 
That  is  the  way  the  Master  works.  On  looking  at 
his  manuscripts  one  is  astounded  to  see  how  much 
labour  has  gone  into  that  apparent  facility  and  that 
easy  gracefulness.  It  is  a  great  lesson  far  novices. 

He  used  to  make  incessant  corrections,  reversing 
sentences,  making  his  transitions  easier,  cutting  his 
sheets  into  pieces  like  a  puzzle;  and  he  would  put 
at  the  beginning  what  was  at  the  end,  at  the  top 
what  was  at  the  bottom,  then  pasting  it  all  together. 
Certain  parts  which  had  already  been  set  by  the 
printer  were  re-written  and  then  re-set  eight  or  ten 
times  in  proof.  France  would  suppress  a  number 
of  delightful  touches.  He  sought  and  he  achieved 
the  utmost  simplicity. 

When  the  text  was  read  in  its  first  form  his 
friends  had  said: 

"It  is  really  charming!  It  is  exquisite !  Do  not 
touch  it  any  more !  You  will  spoil  it  all." 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

But  as  proof  followed  proof  they  had  been  forced 
to  admit  that  there  was  continual  progress  in  the 
direction  of  perfection.  Yet,  France  could  not 
bring  himself  to  let  this  Jeanne  d' Arc  of  his  take 
flight  on  the  wings  of  imagination.  He  had  a  sus- 
picion that  this  work,  conceived  without  any  prej- 
udice and  respecting  only  the  truth,  would  please 
but  few  readers.  It  was  then  that  we  found  him 
in  a  melancholy  mood. 

He  was  chatting  with  Pierre  Champion,  the 
learned  biographer  of  Charles  d'Orleans  and  of 
Frangois  Villon.  To  this  erudite  young  man  he 
transferred  the  warm  friendship  which  he  used  to 
show  to  his  father,  who  died  recently.  The  worthy 
publisher,  Honore  Champion,  of  the  Quai  Mala- 
quais,  had  indeed  known  the  father  of  Anatole 
France,  Thibault  the  bookseller,  who  had  also  kept 
a  bookshop  close  by,  on  the  Quai  Voltaire,  at  the  sign 
Aux  Armes  de  France. 

Pierre  Champion  is  both  good-humoured  and  dis- 
illusioned. His  voice  is  musical  and  far-away.  He 
is  for  ever  dreaming.  He  does  not  live  among  his 
contemporaries,  but  with  the  shades  of  the  past. 
He  almost  always  wraps  himself  up  in  a  huge  muff- 
ler, doubtless  lest  he  should  catch  cold  in  the  dank 
shadows  of  History.  As  the  fifteenth  century  was 
his  special  province,  and  he  had  travelled  every  road, 
every  path  and  every  by-way  of  it,  he  used  to  as- 

C68] 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

sist  Anatole  France  in  re-reading  the  proofs  of 
Jeanne  d'Arc. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "when  is  it  going  to  appear?" 

FRANCE. — /  should  like  it  to  be  soon.  But,  as 
you  know,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  latterly  been 
greatly  delayed  by  liver  troubles,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  be  interrupted  again. 

Then  Jean  Jacques  Brousson,  his  secretary,  in- 
quired in  tones  of  filial  anxiety: 

"Are  you  still  suffering?" 

FRANCE. — No,  not  suffering,  but  uneasy.  You 
know  how  this  trouble  interferes  with  work,  for  you 
have  had  it  yourself.  In  fact,  that  is  why  you  are 
sorry  for  mje,  for  one  pities-  oneself  through  other 
people. 

BROUSSON. — "Not  at  all,  my  dear  Master.  I 
do  not  pity  you.  It  is  only  just,  if  Dame  Nature 
tortures  your  body  a  little,  after  having  lavished  the 
treasures  of  the  mind  upon  you." 

FRANCE.— Really? 

BRQUSSON. — "If  I  had  your  genius,  I  would 
gladly  suffer  the  most  cruel  infirmities." 

FRANCE. — This  child  does  not  know  what  he  is 
saying. 

CHAMPION. — "All  the  same,  there  is  some  sense 
in  his  remarks.  But,  to  return  to  your  Jeanne 
d'Arc,  I  am  longing  to  applaud  its  success." 

FRANCE. — Your    friendship    is    deceiving    you. 

[69: 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

People  will  not  like  my  book.  No,  I  assure  you, 
they  will  not  like  it.  They  will  not  find  in  it  what 
they  are  looking  for.  Oh,  I  can  easily  guess  what 
is  expected  of  me:  a  narrative  packed  with  unctuous 
indecencies.  People  will  be  disappointed.  I  ought, 
for  instance,  to  have  insisted  upon  the  virginity  of 
my  heroine,  on  the  te'sts  to  which  she  was  submitted, 
on  the  examination  made  by  the  matrons  appointed 
by  the  judges  for  that  purpose.  But,  I  did  not, 
although  the  temptation  to  do  so  was  strong. 
Amongst  the  documents  in  the  case  for  her  re- 
habilitation there  are  some  delicious  statements  con- 
cerning the  chastity  of  the  Maid. 

The  captains  who  were  her  comrades  inarms,  and 
who  slept  beside  her  on  the  straw  in  the  camp,  called 
heaven  to  witness  that  no  carnal  desire  ever  touched 
them.  They  are  naively  astonished  to  admit  it. 
They,  who  made  it  a  point  of  honor  always  to  dis- 
play their  gallantry  to  the  fair  sex,  are  flabbergasted 
by  their  reserve  towards  the  saintly  maiden.  In  her 
presence,  as  they  put  it,  their  senses  were  stilled. 
For  them  that  is  the  most  surprising  of  miracles  and 
the  manifest  sign  of  divine  intervention. 

HYACINTHE  LovsoN.1 — "So  it  seems  to  you  cer- 
tain, Master,  that  she  preserved  her  virtue?" 

FRANCE. — There    is    really    not    the    slightest 

1  Hyacinthe    Loyson    who    died    recently,    wa»   the    son    of    the 
celebrated  Modernist. 

C70] 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

doubt  about  it.  The  matrons  of  Poitiers  brought 
positive  testimony  in  her  favour,  though,  in  this  con- 
nection, Solomon  prudently  advises  the  wise  man  to 
reserve  judgment.  Moreover,  you  must  remember 
that  this  virtue,  preserved  in  the  midst  of  the  worst 
blackguards,  was  a  great  subject  of  amazement  to 
her  contemporaries.  The  slightest  weakness  would 
immediately  have  been  trumpeted  abroad. 

Finally,  when  Jeanne  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
English  she  happened  to  fall  ill,  and  the  doctors 
who  attended  to  her  certainly  did  not  fail  to  verify 
a  matter  in  which  all  the  judges  were  interested.  If 
the  examination  had  turned  to  her  discredit,  her 
accusers,  according  to  the  ideas  of  the  time,  could 
legitimately  have  declared  her  a  witch,  and  pos- 
sessed by  the  devil.  The  strategy  of  Beelzebub 
was,  in  effect,  simple  and  infallible.  If  he  wished 
to  dominate  a  woman,  he  began  by  depriving  her 
of  the  essential.  After  that  first  sacrifice,  it  seems, 
she  could  no  longer  refuse  him  anything.  She  be- 
came his  most  devoted  slave.  And  there  was  an 
element  of  truth  in  that  superstition,  for  women 
blindly  obey  the  man  who  arouses  their  senses. 

LOYSON. — "But  what,  in  the  last  analysis,  what 
do  you  think  of  Jeanne,  dear  Master?" 

FRANCE. — That  she  was  a  valiant  girl,  very 
devoted  to  her  king.  I  am  filled  with  enthusiasm 
for  her  bravery,  and  with  horror  of  the  awful  bar- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

barity  of  the  theologians  who  sent  her  to  the  stake. 

DREYFOUS  2  "Then  you  entirely  share  the  feelings 
of  Michelet?" 

FRANCE. — Why  not? 

DREYFOUS. — "You  are  not  in  love  with  Jeanne,  I 
suppose  ?  Michelet  used  to  dream  about  her.  He 
used  to  see  and  hear  her.  Those  visions  did  not 
surprise  him  in  the  least.  He  himself  used  to  see 
her  in  visions.  For  instance,  here  is  a  fact  of  which 
I  was  a  witness : 

"One  day,  when  I  happened  to  be  in  Rouen,  I 
saw  old  Michelet  sitting  on  a  milestone  at  the  foot 
of  the  great  tower  in  which  Jeanne  had  been  captive. 
I  went  up  to  greet  him,  when  suddenly  I  noticed  that 
his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  'What  in  the  world  is  wrong?'  I  asked  deeply 
moved. 

"  'She  is  in  there,'  he  replied,  pointing  to  the 
tower. 

"Then,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  awakened: 
1  'Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  friend,  I  do  not 
know  what  I  am  thinking  of.'  " 

FRANCE. — /  like  that  story,  for  it  is  absolutely 
like  dear  old  Michelet.  In  order  to  write  history 
he  preferred  to  proceed  by  means  of  hallucinations. 

CHAMPION. — "A  lovely  epigram!" 

2  Dreyfous,    since    dead,    was    a    celebrated    member    of    the 
Ecole  des  Chartes. 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

Loyson  led  our  host  back  to  the  subject. 

"Frankly,"  he  asked,  "do  the  Voices  not  interfere 
with  your  admiration  for  Jeanne?" 

FRANCE. — Not  at  all. 

LOYSON. — "What!  Do  her  visions  not  seem 
mad  to  you?" 

FRANCE. — Come,  my  friend!     We  all  have  them. 

LOYSON    (astonished) — "How  do   you   mean?" 

FRANCE. — Do  you  want  contemporary  instances? 
Remember  the  Dreyfus  Affair.  Our  friend  Francis 
de  Pressense  at  that  time  used  continually  to  invoke 
Justice  and  Truth.  He  talked  of  them  as  of  living 
beings.  I  am  sure  he  used  to  see  them.  And  did 
not  Zola  proclaim  that  "Truth  was  on  the  March"? 
He  also  beheld  it  as  a  real  person.  It  appeared  to 
him,  I  fancy,  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful,  dark  woman, 
with  a  serious  face.  Probably  she  looked  like 
Madame  Segond-Weber.  She  was  clothed  in  a 
white  peplum,  like  the  actresses  of  the  Comedie 
Franqaise  when  they  represent  the  goddesses  of  an- 
tiquity, and  she  held  well  aloft  a  glittering  mirror. 

No.  I  am  wrong.  Zola's  Truth  must  have  been 
more  naturalistic.  Perhaps  she  reminded  him  of 
Mouquette  showing  .  .  .  you  know  what!  At  all 
events,  he  used  to  see  her  as  I  see  you.  Yet,  I  ask 
you,  my  friend.  Do  Justice  and  Truth  exist? 

LOYSON. — "No,  obviously.  Not  in  flesh  and 
blood.  But  they  exist." 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

FRANCE. — Hello!  Now  you  are  becoming  a 
visionary.  Justice  and  Truth,  my  dear  Loyion, 
exist  only  in  so  far  as  men  desire  them.  And  the 
desire  for  them  is  lukewarm.  But  if  Pressense  and 
Zola  allow  themselves  to  be  guided  by  imaginary 
divinities,  are  we  to  laugh  at  Jeanne  because  of  her 
Saints,  male  and  female,  and  her  whole  heavenly 
militia? 

Loyson  was  opening  his  mouth  to  protest,  but 
France  added  immediately: 

You  will  say  that  she  saw  ten  million  angels 
around  her,  and  that  is  a  lot.  It  is  certainly  more 
than  Pressense  and  Zola  ever  saw.  But,  after  all, 
why  quarrel  about  figures? 

We  began  to  laugh. 

France  continued: 

All  minds  in  the  fifteenth  century  were  haunted 
by  chimeras.  If  little  Jeanne  "saw  her  Voices,"  as 
she  naively  expressed  it,  her  judges,  who  tried  to 
convict  her  of  sorcery,  believed  with  all  their  might 
in  demons.  But,  whereas  little  Jeanne's  dreams 
were  radiant,  and  impelled  her  to  the  most  noble 
enterprises,  those  of  her  tormenters  were  filthy,  in- 
famous and  monstrous. 

However,  do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Loyson. 
If  I  defend  and  admire  the  visions  of  the  poor  little 
herdsmaid,  it  does  not  follow  that,  in  writing  her 
history,  I  have  myself  given  credence  to  the  miracles. 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

Quite  the  contrary.  I  constantly  remembered  that 
it  is  the  duty  of  the  scientist  to  find  a  rational  ex- 
planation for  all  facts.  And  I  tried  to  bring  out 
clearly  what  made  Jeanne's  mission  logically  pos- 
sible. 

First  and  foremost,  it  was  the  general  credulity 
of  the  period.  Her  position  with  the  Armagnacs 
was  strengthened  by  the  prophecies  of  Merlin  and 
the  Venerable  Bede  concerning  a  Maid  who  would 
deliver  the  kingdom.  To  the  troops  of  the  Dauphin 
and  the  soldiery  of  the  militia  Jeanne  was  a  mascot, 
whose  mere  presence  aroused  their  fanaticism,  made 
them  oblivious  of  danger,  and  gave  them  victory. 
On  the  other  hand,  her  reputation  as  a  sorceress 
inspired  terrible  fear  in  the  English,  who  had 
hitherto  been  so  greatly  dreaded  by  the  people  of 
France,  and  who  were  commonly  called  "Les 
Coues,"  that  is,  the  tailed  devils.  In  fact,  it  was 
believed  that  they  had  little  tails  behind. 

All  Jeanne's  power,  which  was  undoubtedly  con- 
siderable, came  from  the  ascendant  which  she  un- 
wittingly established  over  the  feeble  mentality  of 
her  contemporaries.  To  this  must  be  added  the 
heroism  which  the  excellent  girl  displayed  on  every 
occasion.  When  her  marvellous  adventure  is  min- 
utely analysed,  it  arouses  the  same  surprise  as  a 
very  brilliant  star  seen  through  the  most  powerful 
astronomical  glasses.  However  greatly  it  be  mag- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

nified,  the  heavenly  body  always  remains  a  point 
without  diameter. 

Jeanne  was  but  little  in  herself,  but  the  legend 
which  formed  about  her  immediately  was  splendid, 
and  it  has  not  lost  any  of  its  splendour.  It  must  be 
added  that  her  mission  was  perhaps  easier  than  one 
would  think,  for  the  English  were  exhausted  and 
few  in  numbers.  Nor  must  we  forget  the  skill  of 
Charles  FII  and  his  counsellors,  for  I  am  quite  per- 
suaded that,  if  he  was  far  from  warlike,  Charles 
Vll  was  at  least  a  very  shrewd  negotiator,  who  got 
more  by  gentle  methods  from  the  burghers  of  the 
towns  than  by  force,  and  relied  more  upon  diplo- 
macy than  upon  arms,  one  of  those  good  kings,  in 
brief,  whose  prudence,  skill,  and  tenacity  in  council, 
made  ancient  France  great. 

CHAMPION  (in  very  gentle  tones) — "Never 
fear,  dear  Master,  you  will  be  blamed  for  having 
given  a  human  explanation  of  this  pious  story,  and 
for  having  freed  it  from  charisms,  to  use  the  theo- 
logical term.  I  can  already  hear  your  usual  oppo- 
nents. They  will  say  that  your  sceptical  hands 
should  not  have  touched  this  sacred  image." 

FRANCE  (with  sudden  vivacity) — Sceptic!  Scep- 
tic! It  is  true,  they  will  still  call  me  a  sceptic.  And 
for  them  that  is  the  worst  insult.  But  for  me  it  is 
the  finest  praise.  A  Sceptic!  Why,  that  is  what  all 
the  masters  of  French  thought  have  been.  Rabelais, 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

Montaigne,  Moliere,  Voltaire,  Renan — Sceptics. 
All  the  loftiest  minds  of  our  race  were  sceptics,  all 
those  whom  I  tremblingly  venerate,  and  whose  most 
humble  pupil  I  am. 

At  this  moment  France's  voice  had  lost  its  cus* 
tomary  indolence.  It  had  suddenly  become  vibrant, 
and  his  usually  malicious  expression  was  now  tense 
and  excited. 

He  continued: 

Scepticism!  This  word  is  made  synonomous 
with  negation  and  impotence.  Yet,  our  great 
sceptics  were  sometimes  the  most  affirmative,  and 
often  the  most  courageous,  of  men.  They  denied 
only  negations.  They  attacked  everything  that 
fetters  the  mind  and  the  will.  They  struggled 
against  ignorance  that  stupefies,  against  error  that 
oppresses,  against  intolerance  that  tyrannizes, 
against  cruelty  that  tortures,  and  against  hatred 
that  kills.  They  are  accused  of  having  been  unbe- 
lievers. But  first  we  must  know  whether  belief  is 
a  virtue,  and  whether  genuine  strength  does  not  lie 
in  doubting  what  there  is  no  reason  to  believe.  It 
would  not  be  difficult  to  prove  that  those  Frenchmen 
of  genius  who  are  called  sceptics  professed  the  most 
magnificent  credo.  Each  one  of  them  formulated 
some  article  of  it. 

Rabelais,  a  bufoon  full  of  seriousness,  proclaims 
the  majesty  of  tolerance.  Like  him  the  Pyrrhonic 

C773 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Montaigne  prostrates  himself  devoutly  before  the 
wisdom  of  the  ancients.  Forgetting  the  oscilla- 
tions of  his  doubting  mind  he  invokes  pity  against 
the  ferocity  of  religious  wars  and  the  barbarity  of 
judicial  torture.  Above  all,  he  pays  homage  to  the 
sanctity  of  friendship.  Moliere  inveighs  against 
the  passions  and  weaknesses  which  make  men  hate- 
ful, and  he  preaches  the  beautiful  gospel  of  sociabil- 
ity. In  his  wildest  capers  the  unbelieving  Voltaire 
never  loses  sight  of  his  ideal  of  reason,  knowledge 
and  kindness — yes,  kindness,  for  this  great  satirist 
was  unkind  only  to  the  wicked  and  the  foolish.  Fin- 
ally, Renan  always  remained  a  priest;  all  he  did  was 
to  purify  religion.  He  believed  in  the  divine,  in 
learning;  he  believed  in  the  future  of  mankind. 
Thus  all  our  sceptics  were  full  of  ardour,  all  strove 
to  deliver  their  fellow-men  from  the  chains  that  drag 
them  down.  In  their  own  way  they  were  saints. 

Some  one  said:  "Saint  Renan,  is  the  title  of  one 
of  the  chapters  of  Souvenirs  dfenfance  et  de  jeu- 
nesse."  But  none  had  ever  spoken  before  of  Saint 
Voltaire  and  Saint  Rabelais. 

Ignoring  the  sarcasm,  France  continued: 
People  reproach  these  giants  with  having  pre- 
sumed too  much  upon  human  reason.  For  my  part, 
I  have  no  excessive  confidence  in  reason.  I  know 
how  weak  and  tottering  it  is.  But  I  remember 
Diderot's  clever  apologue:  "I  have"  he  said, 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

"only  a  small  flickering  light  to  guide  me  in  the 
darkness  of  a  thick  forest.  Up  comes  a  theologian 
and  blows  it  out."  Let  us  first  of  all  follow  reason, 
it  is  the  surest  guide.  It  warns  us  itself  of  its 
feebleness  and  informs  us  of  its  own  limitations. 
Moreover,  so  far  from  being  incompatible  with  sen- 
timent, it  leads  to  feeling.  When  we  have  brooded 
deeply,  the  most  sceptical  thinkers  are  seized  with 
a  profound  commiseration  for  their  fellow-men,  in 
the  face  of  the  useless  and  eternal  flux  of  the  Uni- 
verse, of  the  insignificance  of  wretched  mankind, 
and  of  the  absurd  suffering  which  men  inflict  upon 
one  another  during  the  brief  dream  of  existence. 
It  is  but  a  step  from  that  compassion  to  fraternal 
love,  and  it  is  easily  taken.  Pity  becomes  active, 
and  he  who  believed  himself  to  be  for  ever  aloof 
from  all  things  jumps  desperately  into  the  struggle 
to  save  his  unhappy  fellow-men.  That,  my  friends, 
is  how  sceptics  feel. 

We  had  listened  in  silence  to  this  passionate  con- 
fession of  faith.  Then  France  resumed,  almost 
apologetically : 

No  doubt,  you  will  think  I  have  let  my  feelings 
get  the  better  of  me.  .  .  .  But,  the  poor  sceptics 
are  really  too  greatly  misunderstood.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  they  are  the  most  idealistic  of  mortals,  but 
they  are  disappointed  idealists.  Because  they 
dream  of  a  very  beautiful  world,  they  are  depressed 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

at  seeing  mankind  so  different  from  what  it  ought 
to  be.  The  irony  which  they  affect  is  merely  an 
expression  of  their  discouragement.  They  laugh, 
but  their  gaiety  always  conceals  a  terrible  bitter- 
ness. They  laugh  in  order  not  to  weep. 

Here  Pierre  Champion  interjected  rather  mock- 
ingly : 

"If  Jeanne  d'  Arc  had  been  a  sceptic  of  the  right 
school,  who  knows?  Perhaps  she  would  have  ac- 
complished out  of  love  for  humanity  the  magnan- 
imous actions  which  faith  inspired  in  her." 

Certainly  she  would  not,  replied  France  smiling, 
for  it  is  only  the  visionaries  who  do  very  great 
things.  But  observe,  oh  malicious  Pierre  Cham- 
pion, that  Voltaire,  the  most  irreligious  of  men, 
also  knew  how  to  be  brave,  when,  in  defiance  of  all 
the  ecclesiastical  and  judicial  powers,  he  pursued 
the  rehabilitation  of  Colas,  of  Sirven,  of  the  Che- 
valier de  la  Barre,  and  of  Lally-Tollendal.  Do  not 
forget  that,  if  he  sinned  in  writing  "La  Pucelle," 
this  scoundrel  was  the  first  to  demand  that  altars 
be  raised  to  Jeanne  d'Arc.3  Rmember  also  that,  if 

3  Anatole  France  is  alluding  to  this  sentence  in  'I'Histoire 
Universelle" : 

"Finally,  accused  of  having  dressed  again  in  men's  clothes, 
•which  were  left  purposely  to  tempt  her,  these  judges,  who  had 
certainly  no  right  to  try  her  since  she  was  a  prisoner  of  war, 
declared  her  an  impenitent  heretic  and  burned  by  slow  fire  her  who, 
having  saved  her  King,  would  have  had  altars  raised  to  her  in  the 
heroic  age,  when  men  paid  such  honour  to  their  liberators" 

[So] 


The  Credo  of  a  Sceptic 

the  judges  of  Jeanne  d'  Arc  had  been  sceptical  phil- 
osophers, instead  of  pious  fanatics,  they  would  cer- 
tainly never  have  burned  her.  The  conclusion  is, 
my  dear  friend,  that  scepticism  prompts  the  most 
humane  sentiments,  and  that,  in  any  case,  it  pre- 
vents crimes. 

I  have  recited  my  Credo.     Amen! 


Professor  Brown  and  the  Secret 
of  Genius 


Professor  Brown  and  the  Secret 
of  Genius 

Wrapped  in  his  beige  dressing-gown  with  brown 
stripes,  and  with  his  eternal  little  crimson  skull-cap 
on  his  head,  France  was  seated  at  his  writing-table 
turning  over  the  pages  of  a  very  old  book  bound  in 
pigskin.  A  soft  and  variegated  light  fell  upon 
the  writer  from  the  window  ornamented  with  those 
knobs  of  glass,  set  in  lead,  which  the  master  gla- 
ziers call  sives.  It  looked  like  a  Rembrandt  pic- 
ture of  some  philosopher  meditating  in  an  attic,  or 
rather,  some  Doctor  Faustus  consulting  the  Cabala. 

Our  host  stood  up  to  receive  us. 

You  are  wondering  what  is  this  venerable  tome. 
It  is  "La  Chronologic  colle."  I  was  looking  in  it 
for  a  portrait  of  Rabelais. 

He  turned  a  few  pages. 

Look.  Here  it  is.  It  was  engraved  by  Leonard 
Gaultier  some  fifty  years  after  the  death  of  the 
great  satirist.  We  do  not  possess  one  engraved 
during  his  lifetime,  and  this  little  picture  is  the  old- 
est in  which  his  features  are  recorded.  Moreover, 
it  is  possibly  like  him.1  What  do  you  think  of  it. 

1  In    point    of    fact,    L'Estolle,    iaho    bought    "La    Chronologie 
colle"  when  it  appeared  in  1601,  ivrote  this  criticism  at  the  head 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Remy  de  Gourmont,2  who  was  present,  looked 
at  the  vignette  and  said: 

"What  a  harsh  expression!  A  real  Bogey  Man! 
His  forehead  is  marked  with  deep  wrinkles,  and 
the  veins  stand  out  as  thick  as  ropes.  His  sunken 
eyes  gleam  with  a  sombre  ardour.  One  would 

of  the  Rabelais  portrait:  "which  in  no  wise  resembleth  him."  In 
this  fashion  he  bore  witness  against  the  resemblance  of  this  por- 
trait.— See  Clouzot,  Les  Portraits  de  Rabelais,  Gazette  des  Beaux 
Arts,  IQII.  But  perhaps  the  legend  which  had  already  formed 
about  Master  Alcofribas  had  substituted  in  the  mind  of  L'Estoile 
the  conventional  type  of  a  genial  buffoon  for  the  recollection  of 
the  grave  personage  whom  he  had  known  a  long  time  before. 

2  Remy  de  Gourmont  liked  to  call  on  Anatole  France.  When 
these  two  rare  and  charming  minds  came  into  contact  they  gave 
out  sparks  like  flint  and  iron,  and  it  was  a  heavenly  delight  to 
hear  them.  Remy  de  Gourmont  was  paradox  personified,  but 
often  more  sensible  paradox  than  vulgar  good  sense.  He  was 
all  feeling,  but  a  hideous  cancer  which  disfigured  his  face  isolated 
him  in  the  torture  of  a  tenderness  he  could  never  express.  Out 
of  spite  he  was  often  ironical,  and  sometimes  even  at  the  expense 
of  love. 

That  morning  I  had  met  him  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne, before  he  had  reached  France's  house.  For  a  moment  we 
watched  together  some  doves  of  variegated  hue,  as  they  billed 
and  cooed  on  the  grass.  Suddenly  he  began: 

"The  Ancients  gave  doves   in   homage   to   Venus,  because  they 
are  very  voluptuous.    But  they  were  mistaken.     There  are  more 
amorous  creatures." 
..'Wihat  are  they?    "I  asked  attentively. 

"Snails!" 

I  gave  a  shiver  of  disgust  and  incredulity. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "snails.  The  zoologists  tell  us,  in  effect, 
that  Dame  Nature,  full  of  generosity  towards  these  little  beasts, 
has  overwhelmed  them  with  joy,  by  giving  them  each  the  attri- 
butes of  both  the  male  and  the  female.  And  when  snails  come 
together  each  little  horned  creature  experiences  a  double  pleasure. 

C863 


Professor  Brown 

surely  expect  more  joviality  in  the  Priest  of  Meu- 
don.     As  Ronsard  says : 

Jamais  le  soleil  ne  1'a  veu, 
Tant  fust-il  matin,  qu'il  n'eust  beu. 
Et  jamais,  au  soir,  la  nuit  noire, 
Tant  fust  tard,  ne  1'a  veu  sans  boire. 

II  se  couchait  tout  plat  a  has 
Sur  la  jonchee,  entre  les  taces; 

Et  parmi  les  escuelles  grasses 

Sans  nulle  honte  se  souillant 

Comme  une  grenouille  en  la  fange.  .  .  . 

"But  that  Bacchic  epitaph  must  lie,  for  'Gargantua* 
and  'Pantagruel'  are  not  at  all  comic.  Leonard 
Gualtier  is  right." 

FRANCE. — /  picture  him  as  you  do.  Rabelais  is 
not  the  boon  companion  one  imagines.  His  ex- 
pressions and  locutions  are  coarse  and  strong,  but 
his  ideas  are  thoughtful.  He  delivers  austere  hom- 
ilies. In  short,  his  gaiety  is  merely  on  the  surface, 
and  his  laugh  ill  conceals  his  profound  seriousness. 

His  gloomy  look  is  not  surprising,  said  one  of  us, 
since  he  was  a  scholar. 

FRANCE. — /  beg  your  pardon.     Rabelais  was  not 

Each  is  simultaneously  lover  and  mistress. 

"It  is  a  pity  these  animals  move  so  slowly  for  they  deserve  more 
than  doves  to  drag  the  chariot  of  Cyoris." 

It  was  laith  such  merry  discourse  that  he  beguiled  our  <vaay  to 
the  door  of  M.  Bergeret. 

1:87:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

what  we  call  a  scholar,  for  he  is  never  a  bore.  He 
is  not  joyful,  but  he  never  tires.  He  happened  to 
bring  out  an  edition  of  the  Aphorisms  of  Hippoc- 
rates, but  he  omitted  to  preserve  the  manuscript 
commentaries.  W]ny?  Probably  because  he  did 
not  find  them  interesting. 

Now,  what  is  a  scholar?  A  deadly  creature  who 
studies  and  publishes  on  principle  everything  that  is 
fundamentally  uninteresting.  So,  Rabelais  is  not  a 
scholar.  Yet,  he  had  pretty  solid  erudition,  it  can- 
not be  denied.  And  for  a  man  whose  learning  was 
the  least  of  his  virtues,  his  was  rather  pleasing. 
Do  not  certain  of  his  fanatical  admirers  credit  him 
with  omniscience?  For  example,  in  connection  with 
the  military  operations  of  Gargantua  against  Pichro- 
chole,  they  declare  that  Rabelais  is  a  great  strat- 
egist. But,  that  is  a  joke.  On  that  principle,  any 
writer  would  be  a  consummate  tactician.  Any  time 
you  like  I  bet  I  could  write  a  booklet  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pages  on  "I aul  de  Kock:  Tactician"  I 
would  go  to  "Le  Cocu"  for  my  material.  In  that 
novel  there  is  an  old  soldier  who  trains  a  parrot 
to  cry:  "Port  arms!  Present  arms!  Shoulder 
arms  .  .  .  eppf  etc."  I  would  write  a  gloss  on 
that. 

"Notice,"  I  would  say,  "what  a  wonderful  soldier 
this  Paul  de  Kock  was.  He  is  thoroughly  familiar 
with  the  arts  of  war.  'Port  arms!'  is,  in  fact,  the 

C88] 


Professor  Brown 

command  given  to  a  soldier  when  he  is  to  raise  his 
rifle." 

I  would  continue: 

'We  have  collated  this  passage  with  a  military 
manual  of  1830,  and  on  page  25,  paragraph  5,  we 
found  the  command:  'Port  arms!'  This  move- 
ment is  composed  as  follows:  'Raise  the  rifle  with 
the  right  hand  to  the  level  of  the  shoulder,  grasp  it 
in  the  left  hand,  etc.  .  .  .'  ' 

In  this  fashion  I  would  exploit  the  psittacism  of 
the  learned  bird.  Conclusion:  In  tactics  Paul  de 
Kock  could  have  given  lessons  to  Napoleon  the 
First.  And  so  the  trick  is  done. 

The  truth  is,  Master  Alcofribas  was  not  more 
deeply  versed  than  Paul  de  Kock  in  the  arts  of  war. 
Has  not  somebody  discovered  in  Gargantua  refer- 
ences to  the  wars  of  Francois  I  and  Charles  V? 
Pure  nonsense!  The  workings  of  the  imagination 
of  Rabelais  have  been  reconstructed.  He  was  not 
at  all  inspired  by  the  great  events  of  his  time,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  by  very  insignificant  facts  whose 
memory  had  remained  with  him  from  youth.  Some 
of  the  proper  names  which  he  uses  are  those  of 
people  he  had  known.  I  do  not  guarantee,  how- 
ever, that  he  got  those  of  Humevesne  and  Baisecul 
from  real  life.  But  the  episode  itself  of  these  two 
advocates  was  suggested  to  him  by  a  lawsuit  in 
which  he  was  involved. 

C89] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

In  the  same  way,  the  differences  of  Grandgousier 
and  Pichrochole  represent  quarrels  which  had  set 
the  peasants  of  Touraine-at  loggerheads,  and  whose 
grotesque  echoes  had  amused  him.  No  doubt  he 
wished  to  imply  that  the  wars  of  the  proudest  sover- 
eigns were  astonishingly  like  the  brawls  of  yokels — 
a  truth  with  a  fine  flavour  of  irony! 

No,  my  friends,  Rabelais  was  not  a  great  strate- 
gist. He  was  quite  satisfied  to  be  a  great  writer. 

Josephine  showed  in  Mr.  Brown,  Professor  of 
Philology  at  the  University  of  Sydney. 

He  is  a  stout,  robust  man,  with  a  brick-red  com- 
plexion, and  clean-shaven  upper  lip  and  chin.  His 
powerful  muscles  are  a  proof  of  his  assiduous  cult 
of  golf  and  polo.  He  wears  gold  spectacles.  His 
red  hair,  brushed  down  in  front,  is  as  stiff  as  the 
bristles  of  a  boar. 

We  were  struck  by  his  Anglo-Saxon  elegance. 

Seen  at  close  hand  his  suit  was  a  coarse-grained 
tweed,  showing  every  colour  in  the  rainbow,  but 
from  a  distance  it  assumed  the  greenish,  indefinite 
colour  of  split-pea  soup.  A  small  red  tie,  which 
affected  an  air  of  conquest,  was  attached  to  his  soft 
collar,  from  which  his  bull  neck  emerged.  Tan 
shoes,  as  long  and  as  broad  as  a  steamboat,  com- 
pleted the  dress  of  this  solid  and  learned  Australian. 

FRANCE. — What  can  I  do  for  you,  Professor? 

C903 


Professor  Brown 

Mr.  Brown,  expressing  himself  in  French  with 
extreme  difficulty,  and  furthermore  embarrassed  by 
an  attack  of  shyness  which  seized  him  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  celebrated  man,  stammered  as  best  he 
could : 

"Je  .  .  .  vo  .  .  .  je  voulais  voir  vo." 

FRANCE. — /  am  deeply  honoured,  Sir,  and  the 
pleasure  is  mutual.  Won't  you  take  a  seat,  and 
satisfy  your  wish. 

When  Mr.  Brown  had  sat  down  he  continued, 
halting  after  each  word:  "I  was  looking  for  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  know  the  mystery  .  .  .the  secret  of 
literary  genius.  .  .  ." 

FRANCE. — //  /  understood  you  rightly,  you  are 
preparing  a  thesis  on  literary  genius. 

"Yes!"  shouted  Professor  Brown,  radiant  at  hav- 
ing been  understood.  "Yes,  yes." 

FRANCE. — Well,  just  as  you  came  in  our  conver- 
sation, by  a  happy  coincidence,  turned  upon  one  of 
the  greatest  geniuses  of  France  and  of  the  whole 
world,  Rabelais. 

"Yes.    Rabelais.     Yes." 

Mr.  Brown's  eyes  beamed  with  joy. 

FRANCE. — What  ,is  the  secret  of  his  genius?  You 
ask  me  a  thorny  question.  By  what  qualities  did 
he  surpass  other  writers? 

Has  it  not  been  said  that  he  wrote  badly?  some 
one  objected. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

FRANCE. — All  great  authors  write  badly.  That 
is  well  known.  At  least,  the  pedants  say  so.  Great 
writers  are  impetuous.  The  vigour  of  their  vocab- 
ulary, the  intensity  of  their  style,  the  daring  of  their 
phrases,  disconcert  the  pedants.  To  the  pundits 
good  writing  apparently  means  writing  according  to 
rules.  But  born  writers  make  their  own  rules,  or 
rather  make  none.  They  change  their  manner  at 
every  moment,  as  inspiration  dictates,  sometimes 
they  are  harmonious,  sometimes  rugged,  sometimes 
indolent  and  sometimes  spirited.  So,  according  to 
the  common  notion,  they  cannot  write  well.  And 
why  deny  it?  Rabelais  is  not  free  from  faults.  His 
litanies  of  nouns,  his  strings  of  epithets,  his  lines  of 
verbs,  undoubtedly  prove  his  inexhaustible  imagina- 
tion, but  they  make  his  style  heavy.  His  phrases 
often  lack  suppleness,  cadence  and  balance. 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  old  authors 
more  regularity,  clarity  and  harmony.  "Le  Menag- 
ier,"  for  instance,  which  was  written  long  before 
Gargantua,  contains  some  lovely  passages  about 
bread,  wine  and  bees.  No  doubt  the  old  language 
creates  an  illusion,  for  distance  gives  an  exquisite 
shade  to  the  things  of  the  past,  and  we  find  charm  in 
what  had  but  little  for  men  of  an  earlier  age.  Yet, 
I  do  not  think  I  am  mistaken.  "Le  Menagier"  is 
charmingly  written.  It  would  be  good  Rabelais, 
if  it  were  Rabelais ....  That  is,  if  it  did  not 


Professor  Brown 

lack  genius.  Similarly,  the  "Contes"  of  the  Seigneur 
des  Accords  are  full  of  charm.  His  style  flows  and 
is  a  delight  to  the  ear.  It  is  better  than  that  of 
Rabelais.  Nevertheless,  it  is  Rabelais  who  is  the 
great  writer,  and  not  the  Seigneur  des  Accords. 

One  of  us  suggested:  Moliere  also  writes  badly. 

FRANCE. — Yes,  indeed,  Moliere  also  writes  badly, 
And  so  do  Saint-Simon,  and  Balzac  and  all  the 
others,  I  tell  you!  In  Moliere's  time  certain 
writers,  Saint-Ememond  and  Furetiere,  for  ex- 
ample, used  a  much  more  polished  syntax.  They 
were  purer.  Only,  Moliere  is  Moliere,  that  is  to 
say,  not  a  good,  but  a  great  writer. 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

Professor  Brown  did  not  lose  a  word  of  the  dis- 
course. He  was  listening  with  his  ears,  of  course, 
but  also  with  his  wide  open  eyes,  and  above  all,  with 
his  gaping  mouth.  Suddenly  he  plunged  bravely 
into  the  stream  of  talk. 

"I  ...  always  thought .  .  .  that  the  great .  .  . 
writers  were  those  .  .  .  who  worked  hardest." 

We  had  all  followed  his  stammering  words  with 
anxious  politeness. 

With  the  utmost  courtesy  France  asked  him: 

Perhaps  you  are  thinking,  Professor,  of  the 
famous  adage  of  Buffon:  "Genius  is  a  long 
patience." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Australian  emphatically,  his  eyes 
swimming  with  infinite  gratitude. 

FRANCE. — Well,  I  strongly  suspect  that  this  sen- 
tence is  untrue. 

Mr.  Brown's  features  were  veiled  in  sadness,  but 
he  opened  his  mouth  more  eagerly  than  ever. 

FRANCE. — Yes,  that  maxim  is  false.  Geniuses 
are  not  the  most  painstaking  of  men.  Or  rather, 
there  is  no  hard-and-fast  rule.  Some  men  of  genius, 
I  grant,  are  very  diligent.  Our  Flaubert  is  one  of 

1971 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

them.*  He  tried  a  hundred  phrases  in  order  to 
write  one.  And  Dumas  fits  very  justly  said  of 
him:  "He  is  a  cabinet-maker  who  cuts  down  a  whole 
forest  to  make  a  wardrobe."  But  other  geniuses 
are  careless  to  excess,  and  this  kind  is  perhaps  the 
least  rare.  In  Rabelais,  to  return  to  that  subject, 
many  careless  slips  are  noticeable.  He  consecrated 
to  his  work,  as  he  has  told  us  himself,  "only  such 
time  as  was  devoted  to  the  needs  of  the  body,  to  wit, 
while  eating  and  drinking" 

He  did  not  write;  he  dictated,  and  he  gave  rein 
to  his  imagination.  Consequently,  the  dimensions 
of  his  giants  vary  continually.  Sometimes  they  are 
taller  than  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame,  sometimes 
they  scarcely  exceed  human  measurements.  At  the 
end  of  the  second  book  he  announces  that  Panurge 
is  going  to  marry  and  that  his  wife  will  make  a 
cuckold  of  him  in  the  first  month  of  their  wedded 
life,  that  Pantagruel  will  find  the  Philosopher's 
Stone,  and  that  he  will  wed  the  daughter  of  John  the 
priest,  King  of  India.  But  not  one  of  these  things 
happens  in  the  following  books.  Rabelais  com- 
pletely forgot  his  fine  programme.  In  short,  he 
was  the  most  careless  of  geniuses. 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT. — "Oh,  well!  The  greatest 

1  Anatole  France  is  also.  It  is  therefore  all  the  greater 
merit  in  him  that  he  should  recognise  the  beauty  of  improvisation 
in  others. 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

Spanish  writer,  Cervantes,  was  probably  even  less 
careful.  His  thoughtlessness  betrays  him  every- 
where. The  day  after  Don  Quixote  leaves  his  house, 
his  housekeeper  tells  the  priest  he  has  been  gone  a 
week.  Sancho  bewails  the  loss  of  his  ass  which  has 
been  stolen  from  him  by  the  thief,  Gines  de  Pasa- 
monte,  and  a  few  pages  further  on  he  remounts  his 
beast  which  has  inexplicably  returned.  Sancho's 
wife  is  first  called  Joan  and  then  Teresa.  And, 
strangest  of  all,  the  corpulent  attendant  of  the 
Knight  of  la  Mancha  is  not  shown  at  the  outset  as 
he  appears  in  the  course  of  the  story.  It  is  only 
after  several  chapters,  for  example,  that  the  author 
attributes  to  him  the  pleasant  mania  for  breaking 
out  into  proverbs.  Many  passages  of  the  master- 
piece of  Saavedra  show  striking  signs  of  hasty 
work." 

FRANCE. — What  did  I  tell  you,  Professor!  And 
coming  to  one  of  your  own  geniuses,  could  not 
Shakespeare,  too,  be  caught  in  the  'very  act  of  care- 
lessness? For  instance,  he  says  repeatedly  that  the 
witches  made  three  prophecies  to  Macbeth.  In 
truth,  they  greet  him  with  three  titles.  Thane  of 
Glamis,  Thane  of  Cawdor  and  King.  But,  as  Mac- 
beth was  already  Thane  of  Glamis  when  they  ap- 
peared to  him,  there  were  only  two  prophecies,  not 
three,  with  all  due  respect  to  the  great 

1:99:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

will  not  dwell  on  the  port  of  Bohemia,  on  the  clock 
whjch  strikes  the  hour,  in  ancient  Rome,  and  on 
many  other  charming  points  which  you  know. 

Ignorance  or  carelessness?  In  any  case  you  can 
see,  what  a  free-and-easy  fashion  geniuses  botch 
their  sublime  works.  Whatever  may  be  said,  pa- 
tience is  the  least  of  their  virtues.  They  take  no 
pains.  They  are  great  as  beautiful  women  are 
beautiful — without  effort.  That  idea,  I  admit, 
clashes  somewhat  with  current  morality.  People 
would  like  to  think  that  glory  is  achieved  at  the  cost 
of  some  labour.  When  geniuses  are  presented  as 
models  to  young  people,  the  latter  are  usually  told: 
"Work  hard!  Grind  away!  and  you  will  be  like 
them."  And  that,  indeed  would  be  more  just.  But 
then,  what  does  nature  care  for  justice!  Mediocri- 
ties sweat  blood  only  to  produce  rubbish.  Geniuses 
create  wonders  without  an  effort.  In  short,  it  is 
much  easier  to  produce  a  masterpiece  than  a  rhap- 
sody, for  all  things  are  easy  .  .  .  to  the  predestined 
mortal. 

Mr.  Brown  seemed  to  be  overwhelmed.  He 
persisted,  however,  in  his  inquiry. 

"Then,  Monsieur  France,  do  you  not  think  that 
the  chief  quality  of  the  great  writers  is  beauty  of 
imagination?" 

FRANCE. — Wealth  of  imagination? 
[100] 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

MR.  BROW.N.— "Oh!" 

FRANCE. — Perhaps. 

REMY  DE  GOURMO.NT. — "Indeed,  nothing  is  less 
certain.  Almost  all  celebrated  authors,  on  the  con- 
trary, have  cut  their  finest  garments  from  pieces  of 
cloth  which  other  hands  have  woven.  As  Moliere 
put  it,  they  took  their  material  where  they  found  it. 
The  more  one  reads  Rabelais,  Moliere  and  La 
Fontaine,  to«mention  only  these,  the  more  the  share 
of  their  own  inventiveness  diminishes." 

FRANCE. — Very  true,  my  dear  friend.  The  raw 
material  rarely  belongs  to  them.  They  borrow  it, 
and  simply  give  it  a  new  turn.  Nowadays  there  is 
a  rage  for  skinning  geniuses.  It  is  a  fashionable 
pastime.  People  look  for  the  sources  of  their 
works.  Their  detractors  denounce  their  plagiar- 
isms. Their  devotees  do  the  same,  but  they  are 
careful  to  say  that,  when  the  peacock  subtracts  some 
blue  feathers  from  the  jackdaw  to  mix  with  the  eyes 
of  its  tail,  the  jackdaw  has  no  reason  to  complain, 
because  the  peacock  has  done  it  a  great  honour. 
And  when  the  opponents  and  the  devotees  of  a  cult 
have  struggled  for  some  twenty  years  over  an  idol, 
it  would  seem  as  if  nothing  remains  but  dust.  What 
survives  of  Rabelais  after  the  researches  of  the 
Rabelaisians,  and  of  Cervantes  after  those  of  his 
adorers,  and  of  Moliere  after  those  of  the  Molier- 
ists?  In  truth,  I  believe  they  remain  what  they 

nun] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

always  were,  that  is,  very  great  men.  But  modern 
criticism,  by  showing  us  where  they  went  to  find 
each  little  stone  of  their  mosaic,  might  end  by  per- 
suading us  that  their  reputation  is  undeserved.  So 
far  as  Rabelais  is  concerned,  for  instance,  nothing 
more  belongs  to  him.  They  say,  this  page  is  Tory, 
that  is  Lucian,  this  is  from  Thomas  More,  and  that 
from  Colonna. 

It  is  all  true.  What  is  more,  Rabelais  actually 
seems  less  intelligent  than  the  authors  from  whom 
he  derives  his  inspiration,  yes,  less  intelligent.  Com- 
pare the  episode  of  the  Limousin  Scholar  in  Tory 
and  in  Pantagruel.  I  will  briefly  summarize  it.  The 
good  giant  Pantagruel  meets  a  young  coxcomb  who 
boasts  that  he  is  studying  in  Paris,  and  who  speaks 
a  French  strangely  embellished  with  Latin.  To  ex- 
press the  fact  that  he  is  in  the  habit  of  crossing  the 
Seine  morning  and  evening,  he  says: 

"Nous  transfretons  la  Sequane  au  dilicule  el  au 
crepuscule." 

And  in  a  mood  for  gallant  confidences  he  relates 
that  the  Parisian  students  like  to  "inculquer  leurs 
veretres  es  pudendes  de  meretricules  amicabilissimes, 
etc  .  .  .  etc.  .  .  ." 

Pantagruel  listens  to  him  for  some  time  in  as- 
tonishment. Then,  suddenly  losing  patience,  he 
seizes  him  by  the  throat  and  shakes  him  like  a 
puppy.  Then  the  student,  in  his  terror,  spoils  his 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

breeches  and  begins  to  beg  for  mercy  in  the  patois 
of  Limoges.  That  is  the  story. 

Now,  Tory  begins  by  explaining  why  his  charac- 
ter speaks  Latin  first.  It  is  because  this  provincial 
does  not  know  French.  The  only  living  tongue  he 
has  mastered  is  his  local  dialect,  and  if  he  has  re- 
course to  Latin  it  is  by  no  means  out  of  affectation, 
but  because  Latin  was  the  universal  speech,  the  es- 
peranto of  the  period.  Then  suddenly,  in  a  grip  of 
the  giant,  he  returns  to  his  native  language,  which  is 
that  of  Limoges. 

On  the  other  hand,  Rabelais  gives  no  explana- 
tion, and  consequently  his  version  of  the  adventure 
is  less  comprehensible.  But,  as  he  does  not  set  any 
limit  upon  our  conjectures,  we  imagine  that,  if  the 
scholar  talks  a  pedantic  jargon,  in  which  there  is 
much  less  French  than  Latin,  it  is  to  increase  his 
own  importance,  to  flabbergast  Pantagruel.  And 
we  laugh  heartily  when,  under  pressure  of  fear,  this 
stupid  pedant  reveals  all  of  a  sudden  his  humble 
origin  by  his  provincial  gibberish.  Thus  he  mar- 
vellously symbolizes  the  pretentious  hollowness  of 
the  pseudo-educated  who  have  the  gift  of  the  gab. 
And  in  that  way  the  story,  though  not  so  well  con- 
structed, takes  on  a  much  wider  significance. 

Similarly,  compare  the  "Icaromenippus"  of  Lu- 
cian  with  the  episode  of  the  woodcutter  Couillatris 
in  the  prologue  to  the  Fourth  Book  of  Pantagruel. 

[JOS!] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

You  will  see  that  Rabelais  appears  less  intelligent 
than  Lucian.  In  the  "Icaromenippus"  Jupiter,  hav- 
ing opened  a  little  trap-door  at  the  foot  of  his 
throne,  leans  over  it  to  listen  attentively  to  the 
prayers  of  mortals.  Filled  with  a  sense  of  equity, 
the  father  of  gods  and  men  puts  carefully  aside  the 
reasonable  requests,  in  order  to  grant  them,  and  he 
blows  furiously  upon  the  swarm  of  unjust  prayers,  in 
order  to  drive  them  away  from  him. 

The  Jupiter  of  Rabelais,  on  the  contrary,  follows 
no  method.  As  the  appalling  din  of  the  supplica- 
tions rising  from  the  whole  universe  is  head-split- 
ting, he  completely  loses  his  wits.  He  muddles 
everything,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  mere  chance  whether 
he  showers  benefactions  upon  men,  or  overwhelms 
them  with  misfortunes.  Yet,  observe  that,  in  this 
extravagant  form,  the  buffoonery  borders  on  the 
sublime.  With  Lucian  it  was  a  rhetorical  elabora- 
tion. With  our  Rabelais  it  is  a  profound  satire  on 
the  blindness  of  Destiny. 

That  is  the  way  great  men  make  mistakes.  What- 
ever they  may  do,  they  are  always  right,  because 
what  they  invent  is  not  the  result  of  cold  calcula- 
tion, but  of  a  powerful  natural  instinct.  They  cre- 
ate just  as  mothers  bring  children  into  the  world. 
All  the  statues  they  model  have  the  breath  of  life, 
though  they  know  not  why.  Even  though  their 
statues  be  twisted  and  deformed,  they  are  alive,  they 

CI04;] 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

are  not  still-born,  whereas  those  modelled  by  other 
sculptors  according  to  the  rules  are  dead. 

Mr.  Brown  was  more  and  more  discouraged,  be- 
cause he  did  not  succeed  in  discovering  why  men  of 
genius  are  superior  to  vulgar  mortals.  Every  time 
he  thought  he  had  lit  upon  a  point  of  superiority  it 
vanished  under  analysis.  With  the  energy  of  de- 
spair, he  managed  to  stutter : 

"If  the  great  writers  ...  do  not  imagine  the 
things  themselves  .  .  .  they  write  them  better,  per- 
haps. .  .  ." 

FRANCE. — You  say  that  they  have  the  merit  of 
composing  well. 

Frankly,  Professor,  I  think  that  you  are  deceiving 
yourself  in  this.  I  know,  of  course,  that  composi- 
tion usually  is  regarded  as  the  primary  condition  of 
the  art  of  writing.  It  is  one  of  those  eternal  veri- 
ties which  our  respectable  university  teaches  its  off- 
spring as  inalterable  dogmas.  No  salvation  with- 
out plan!  Such  is  the  doctrine.  Literary  work  is  re- 
garded as  a  sort  of  theorem  whose  propositions  are 
mutually  determined,  follow  one  another,  and  hasten 
towards  the  Q.  E.  D.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  is 
visible  in  the  work  of  many  geniuses.  Rabelais, 
Cervantes  and  Swift  troubled  very  little  about  the 
construction  of  their  novels. 

It  is  only  too  clear  that  Master  Alcofribas  had 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  he  was  driving  at. 
When  he  began  "Pantagruel"  there  is  no  doubt  that 
he  did  not  know  exactly  what  he  was  going  to  put 
into  it.  The  episodes  happen  without  any  order, 
and  all  are  perfect.  What  more  is  needed?  It  is 
a  capricious  and  heavenly  excursion. 

Panurge  wants  to  take  unto  himself  a  wife,  but 
he  is  deeply  afraid  that  he  will  be  made  a  cuckold. 
Thereupon  he  consults  the  wise  men  and  the  fools. 
Then  he  sets  of  to  consult  the  Oracle  of  the  Bottle, 
and  we  embark  with  him  upon  the  dark  blue  sea, 
zigzagging  our  course  from  shore  to  shore.  All 
the  time  adventures  are  related  which  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  gnawing  anxiety  of  Pan- 
urge.  Where  is  the  plan  in  all  that? 

The  finest  masterpieces  are  made  in  compart- 
ments, into  which  the  writer  puts  whatever  he  likes. 
They  expand,  swell  out  and  distend  as  they  are 
made.  Encouraged  by  the  success  of  his  first  book 
the  author  continues. 

That  is  what  happened  with  "Pantagruel"  and 
also  with  "Don  Quixote,"  of  which  Gourmont  was 
talking  a  moment  ago.  Like  Rabelais,  Cervantes 
follows  only  his  own  fancy.  He  advances,  retraces 
his  steps,  runs,  stops,  rests  in  the  fields  and  plunges 
into  the  woods.  Now  he  is  amongst  the  shepherds, 
now  amongst  the  nobility,  now  amongst  brigands. 
He  has  no  goal.  He  showed  such  indifference  in 

Cio6] 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

his  "Don  Quixote"  that  any  other  man  would  as- 
suredly have  lost,  but  he  won.  Some  have  that  priv- 
ilege. 

Theoretically,  the  interest  of  his  narrative  should 
decrease.  In  point  of  fact,  the  first  form  of  humour 
exploited  by  Cervantes  is  by  far  the  most  amusing, 
in  principle,  at  least.  In  the  beginning  of  the  book, 
it  is  the  sheer  madness  of  the  hero  that  provokes 
laughter.  He  is  only  his  own  victim.  He  is  the 
dupe  of  his  own  crazy  imagination,  which  causes  him 
to  mistake  windmills  for  giants  and  a  flock  of  sheep 
for  an  army.  Further  on,  however,  he  has  almost 
recovered  his  reason,  and  it  is  no  longer  he  who  cre- 
ates his  own  misfortunes.  It  is  idle  noblemen  who 
play  him  a  thousand  scurvy  tricks.  They  drive  him 
mad  with  all  sorts  of  fireworks.  They  plant  him 
blindfolded  upon  a  wooden  horse  which  they  shake, 
and  persuade  him  that  he  is  riding  through  the  air. 
They  throw  into  his  room  wild  cats  that  claw  his 
face.  In  short,  they  work  up  every  conceivable 
kind  of  practical  joke  against  him.  It  might  be 
feared  that  the  disapproval  which  these  tricks  arouse 
would  detract  from  their  humour.  Not  at  all. 
This  fine  novel  holds  one  with  increasing  interest 
to  the  last  page.  It  is  nothing  short  of  a  mir- 
acle. 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT. — "But  is  it  not  the 
supreme  skill  of  the  good  authors,  that  they  can 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

follow  indolently  their  own  caprices  which  guide 
them  so  well?" 

FRANCE. — My  dear  friend,  everything  is  charm- 
ing in  the  writers  we  love.  For  them  we  make 
infinite  allowances,  and  we  praise  them  for  what  we 
condemn  in  others.  As  we  have  decided  before- 
hand that  they  are  excellent,  they  always  appear 
so  to  us. 

Listen.  One  day  a  rather  amusing  experience 
happened  to  me. 

I  had  given  the  manuscript  of  a  novel  to  a  news- 
paper. As  I  was  going  away,  I  had  divided  the 
sheets  into  sections,  each  representing  an  instalment. 

These  sections  had  been  placed  in  a  rack  with  a 
lot  of  pigeon  holes,  in  several  rows.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  the  compositor  made  a  mistake.  He  took 
the  copy  from  the  pigeonholes  horizontally,  instead 
of  from  left  to  right,  as  he  ought  to  have  done.  My 
story  had  neither  beginning  nor  end,  but  nobody 
noticed  it.  I  was  even  complimented  by  certain  dis- 
criminating critics  on  the  delightful  whims  of  my 
imagination.  I  was  touched  by  their  fervour. 

I  am  sure,  my  dear  Gourmont,  that  you  have 
far  more  legitimate  reasons  for  admiring  the 
disorder  of  Rabelais  and  Cervantes.  What,  after 
all,  does  it  matter  where  they  lead  us?  Are  we 
not  only  too  happy  to  dawdle  with  them  in  the  thou- 
sand flowery  halting-places  along  the  road?  The 

[108:1 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

•very  disconnectedness  of  their  plots  is  an  imita- 
tion of  the  surprises  of  life.  It  is  like  the  succession 
of  day  following  day.  And  then,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, a  more  robust  unity  is  visible  in  their  works 
than,  that  of  a  well  connected  plot.  That  is,  the 
cohesion  of  their  spirit.  The  episodes  are  scat- 
tered, but  the  thought  which  plays  all  through  them 
is  always  clear  and  well  defined.  It  is  a  beautiful, 
internal  radiance  which  illuminates,  vivifies  and  har- 
monizes the  most  varied  adventures. 

What  nobility,  what  pride,  in  "Don  Quixote" 
for  example!  What  amiable  sarcasm!  What 
lofty  poetry!  What  kindness!  The  more  to  ap- 
preciate these  rare  merits  one  must  read  Avellan- 
eda's  insipid  imitation.  This  Spaniard,  you  know, 
a  contemporary  of  Cervantes,  had  the  impertinence 
to  write  a  sequel  to  "Don  Quixote,"  in  order  to  de- 
prive the  author  of  part  of  his  glory  and  profit. 
Cervantes  revolted,  and  he  was  right,  for  during  his 
lifetime  this  plagiarism  must  have  injured  him. 
But  nowadays  I  would  like  the  uninspired  elucubra- 
tion  of  the  imitator  to  be  published  in  the  same  edi- 
tion as  the  masterpiece.  The  caricature  would  en- 
hance the  beauty  of  the  original. 

It  so  happens  that,  while  Cervantes  displays  all 
his  genius  by  abandoning  himself  to  his  entirely 
spontaneous  humour,  the  other  adopts  a  plan,  and 
sets  before  himself  a  purpose.  Avellaneda  regards 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

his  pen  merely  as  an  instrument  for  demonstrating 
the  excellence  of  the  Faith.  All  his  stories  tend 
towards  that  end.  And  what  stones  they  are! 
Judge  for  yourselves: 

Sancho,  for  instance,  meets  a  beautiful  Moorish 
girl,  and  in  a  transport  of  enthusiasm  he  cries: 

"Would  to  God  that  all  the  fleas  in  my  bed  were 
like  this  young  Mohametan!" 

"What  Sancho"  growls  [Don  Quixote,  "is  it 
you  who  speak  so  frivolously,  you,  the  husband  of 
Teresa!  Assuredly  your  spouse  is  outrageously 
ugly,  but  she  is  a  good  Christian,  Sancho.  And 
our  holy  Mother,  the  Church,  enjoins  you  to  find 
her  more  seductive  than  the  most  beautiful  Musul- 
man  women." 

But  what  Avellaneda  especially  recommends  is 
devotion  to  the  Rosary.  He  is  never  tired  of  ex- 
patiating upon  the  blessings  reserved  to  the  pious 
who  tell  their  beads  assiduously.  Amongst  the 
edifying  and  incongruous  homilies  which  he  em- 
broiders upon  this  theme  there  is  one  well  known 
because  our  Nodier  made  a  story  of  it.  I  cannot 
even  understand  how  thaf  storyteller  succeeded  in 
imparting  some  charm  to  this  feeble  invention. 

This  is  the  story. 

A  nun,  a  young  sister  whom  an  elegant  gentleman 
noticed  while  passing  the  half-opened  door  of  a 

Clio] 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

convent,  corresponded  with  the  seducer  and  decided 
to  join  him.  In  spite  of  her  guilty  passion  she  had 
not  ceased  to  show  ardent  devotion  to  the  Holy 
Virgin.  At  the  moment  when  she  was  about  to 
flee  from  the  convent  she  was  driven  by  an  impulse 
of  her  heart  to  the  chapel  of  Mary.  She  laid  upon 
the  steps  of  the  altar  her  religious  habit  which  she 
had  taken  of  to  put  on  secular  clothing. 

With  her  lover,  as  you  may  imagine,  she  expe- 
rienced only  disappointment,  suffering  and  torment. 
That  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

After  some  years,  having  drunk  the  cup  of  bitter- 
ness to  the  dregs,  her  soul  torn  with  remorse,  she 
passes  by  her  old  convent.  She  re-enters,  and  goes 
to  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin.  Behold,  a  miracle! 
Her  habit  is  there  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  in  the 
•very  place  where  she  had  left  it.  She  puts  it  on 
again.  A  moment  later  she  meets  a  young  sister 
who,  showing  not  the  slightest  astonishment  at  her 
return,  talks  to  her  as  if  the  lost  sheep  had  never 
left  the  fold. 

('Sister,  the  Mother  Superior  wants  the  bunch 
of  keys  which  she  gave  you  this  morning." 

And  the  repentant  sinner  actually  finds  hanging 
on  her  girdle  these  keys  which  are  wanted. 

A  sudden  light  inundates  her  soul. 

All  during  her  long  and  lamentable  adventure  the 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Holy  Virgin,  touched  by  her  fervour,  and  pitying 
her  weakness,  assumed  her  likeness,  wore  her 
clothes,  and  played  her  part  in  the  convent. 

Ah,  the  great  virtues  of  the  Rosary! 

Then  France,  without  any  warning,  turned  to  Mr. 
Brown : 

Listen,  Professor,  if  you  were  inspired  by  devo- 
tion, eminent  devotion,  to  the  Rosary,  at  this  very 
moment  the  Virgin  would  be  giving  your  lectures 
in  philology  at  the  University  of  Sydney. 

Mr  Brown  began  to  roll  his  frightened,  globu- 
lar eyes  behind  his  gold  spectacles. 

But,  my  dear  Master,  objected  Jean  Jacques 
Brousson,  France's  secretary,  there  would  surely 
be  some  difficulty  for  the  Virgin  in  taking  the  place 
of  a  person  of  a  different  sex  from  her  own. 

FRANCE. — You  do  not  understand.  Nothing 
is  too  difficult  for  her.  If  there  be  great  devotion, 
that  suffices.  The  proof  is  this  other  story  of  Avel- 
laneda. 

A  very  brave  knight  was  wonderfully  devoted  to 
the  Rosary.  At  dawn  one  holiday  he  went  into  the 
chapel  of  the  Virgin  to  attend  mass.  He  liked  it 
so  much  that  he  wanted  to  hear  a  second  mass  and 
then  a  third.  After  that  he  remained  for  a  long 
time  absorbed  in  prayer.  Towards  the  middle  of 
the  day  he  became  again  conscious  of  the  outer 
world,  and  suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  ought 

CII2] 


Professor  Brown  Still  Searches 

to  have  gone  in  the  morning  to  a  solemn  tournament 
to  measure  his  prowess  against  his  equals.  He  had 
issued  a  great  many  challenges.  What  would 
people  think  of  his  absence?  Without  a  doubt,  he 
had  been  accused  of  retreating.  His  honour  was 
lost! 

He  comes  out  of  the  chapel,  and,  scarcely  has  he 
done  so,  when  he  is  greeted  with  frantic  applause. 

He  thinks  that  people  are  making  fun  of  him  and 
blushes  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He  struggles 
against  his  admirers. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  he  says  to  them.  "Leave  me 
alone.  I  do  not  deserve  your  mockery!" 

"Our  mockery!  Never  was  an  ovation  more  sin- 
cere." 

"Stop,  I  tell  you!     I  will  soon  have  my  revenge" 

"What  revenge  do  you  talk  of  taking?  You,  the 
victor  of  victors!" 

At  this  moment  a  powerful  fellow,  with  broken 
armour,  comes  forward  and  says: 

"Allow  me  to  shake  your  hand.  One  cannot  feel 
any  rancour  towards  so  courageous  a  rival!" 

Then  the  pious  knight  has  no  more  doubts.  A 
great  miracle  has  happened  in  his  favour. 

While  he  was  praying  so  fervently  it  was  the  Fir- 
gin,  the  Virgin  herself,  who  assumed  his  appear- 
ance, mounted  his  horse,  broke  many  a  lance,  tum- 
bled nearly  a  dozen  braggarts  head  over  heels  in 

d  133 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

the  sand  of  the  lists,  and  gathered  a  magnificent 
harvest  of  laurels  for  her  faithful  adorer. 

Whereupon  France  turned  to  his  secretary: 

For  shame,  little  sceptic! 

Then,  to  the  professor  from  Sydney: 

So  you  see,  dear  Mr.  Brown,  it  would  be  child's 
play  for  the  Holy  Virgin  to  take  your  place  .  .  . 
that  is,  if  we  are  to  believe  Avellaneda. 

MR.  BROWN. — But  my  religion  does  not  author- 
ize the  worship  of  the  Virgin. 

FRANCE. — Well,  really,  Professor/  So  much 
the  worse  for  you! 


Professor  Brown  Bewildered 


Professor  Brown  Bewildered 

Professor  Brown  was  not  satisfied.  He  stared 
at  the  floor  in  gloomy  silence. 

Tell  me,  Professor,  I  beg  you,  asked  Anatole 
France,  whence  comes  this  worried  look  upon  your 
face? 

MR.  BROWN. — "Ah!  M.  France,  I  am  less  ad- 
vanced now  than  when  I  came  in,  for,  if  I  have 
understood  you  aright,  great  writers  have  no  merit, 
neither  correctness  of  style,  nor  the  labour  which 
makes  perfection,  nor  imagination,  nor  method  in 
the  arrangement  of  their  stories." 

FRANCE. — Let  us  be  quite  clear.  Some  have 
those  qualities,  but  many  others  have  not,  and  yet 
they  are  geniuses.  That  proves  they  are  not  in- 
dispensable to  great  writers. 

MR.  BROWN,  (energetically) — "Then,  tell  me, 
what  qualities  are  indispensable?" 

His  distress  was  comic.  He  looked  like  a  drown- 
ing man  searching  for  a  buoy  in  a  raging  sea. 

FRANCE. — Dear  Mr.  Brown,  what  is  a  quality 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

and  what  is  a  defect?  We  must  know  that,  first  of 
all. 

He  remained  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  then  ad- 
dressed us  all: 

"Yes.  It  is  true.  These  terms  are  all  relative. 
What  seems  good  to  one  judge ,  seems  bad  to  an- 
other. And,  above  all,  what  is  a  quality  for  one 
generation  becomes  a  defect  for  the  following. 

For  example,  Brossette  makes  a  curious  remark. 
He  reports  a  judgment  upon  Malherbe  by  Des- 
preaux. 

"Malherbe,"  the  author  of  "I'Art  Poetique"  de- 
clared ,  "was  not  free  from  the  faults  with  which  he 
reproached  his  predecessors.  Thus,  one  sometimes 
finds  unexpected  rhymes  in  his  works." 

There  is  the  theory  which  was  current  in  the 
great  century.  In  order  to  be  good,  the  rhyme  had 
to  be  foreseen  by  the  reader  or  the  auditor. 

Example: 

"Puisque   Venus  le  veut,   de  ce  sang  deplorable 
Je  peris  la  derniere  et  la  plus  miserable." 

In  these  two  lines  of  Racine  the  rhyme  seemed 
excellent  to  his  contemporaries  because  they  expec- 
ted it:  "deplorable"  naturally  suggested  "mi- 
serable." And  just  for  the  same  reason  the  rhyme 
seems  bad  to  us.  But  do  not  forget  that  certain 
rhymes  in  Racine  strike  us  as  excellent:  this,  for 
example: 


Professor  Brown  Bewildered 

"Ah!  qu'ils  s'aiment,  Phenix,  j'y  consens.     Qu'elle  parte! 
Que  charmes  1'un  de  1'autre,  ils  retournent  a  Sparte!" 

But  that  was  precisely  the  sort  of  rhyme  his  con- 
temporaries thought  was  bad,  because  it  was  unex- 
pected. 

We  Parnassians,  on  the  other  hand,  demanded 
rare  and  unusual  rhymes.  We  swooned  with  de- 
light when  charming  Theodore  de  Banville  in- 
vented amusing  ones,  such  as 

".  .  .  des  escaliers 
Qu'un  Titan,  de  sa  main  gigantesque,  a  lies." 

/  beg  your  pardon,  Professor.  No  doubt  these 
remarks  on  French  'versification  are  too  subtle  to 
interest  you.  But  I  will  choose  more  striking  in- 
stances to  show  you  that  the  qualities  of  yesterday 
are  the  defects  of  today.  Let  us  return  to  your 
Shakespeare,  if  you  like. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Brown. 

FRANCE. — Juliet  says  to  Romeo: 

"If  my  kinsmen  do  see  thee,  they  will  murder  thee." 
Whereupon  Romeo  replies: 

"There  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eyes 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords." 

We  call  that  preciosity,  and  to  us  it  seems  a  de- 
fect. 

Another  example: 

In  "Hamlet"  Laertes,  weeping  for  the  death  of 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

his  sister,  Ophelia,  who  has  just  drowned  herself, 
cries  piteously: 

"Too  much  of  water  hast  thou,  poor  Ophelia, 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears." 

Instead  of  moving  us,  that  makes  us  laugh,  does 
it  not? 

As  you  know,  the  great  Will  was  full  of  such  con- 
ceits. We  criticize  them,  for,  in  our  opinion,  they 
are  faults  of  taste.  They  are  blots  which  unfor- 
tunately tarnish  the  splendour  of  Shakespeare.  But 
we  must  remember  that  all  the  writers  of  Elizabeth's 
court  wrote  the  same  way.  There  was  an  epidemic 
of  fustian  in  poetry.  Euphuism  was  triumphant. 
The  rhymers  expressed  themselves  only  in  affecta- 
tions. Love,  hatred,  hope,  sorrow,  all  the  passions 
were  put  into  puzzles  and  charades. 

Referring  to  Alexander  the  Great  when  he  had 
fallen  in  love,  Lyly,  the  most  celebrated  of  Shake- 
speare's contemporaries,  made  the  following  com- 
ment, which  he  thought  was  clever: 

"A  spirit,  whose  greatness  the  entire  orbit  of  the 
world  could  not  contain,  is  now  imprisoned  in  the 
narrow  orbit  of  a  languishing  eye." 

Well,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  if  mannerisms 

were  the  defect     of  everybody  at  the  time,  then 

they  were  not  really  a  defect.     On  the  contrary, 

they  were  a  quality.     The  more  involved,  obscure 

[1203 


Professor  Brown  Bewildered 

and  far-fetched  a  poet  was,  the  more  he  was  ap- 
plauded. And  the  chief  merit  of  Shakespeare  in 
the  eyes  of  the  English  at  this  time  was  precisely 
that  we  consider  his  worst  defect. 

All  the  greatest  authors  are  in  the  same  boat. 
What  their  contemporaries  admired  in  them  is  just 
what  displeases  us.  Dante  sometimes  tires  us  with 
a  kind  of  mumbo-jumbo  which  he  constantly  uses. 
He  attributes  special  virtues  to  figures.  He  ex- 
plains the  mysterious  influence  of  the  number  g  and 
its  root,  J.  He  elaborates  a  system  of  abstruse 
symbols,  in  which  the  passions  are  represented  by  a 
forest,  sensual  desire  by  a  panther,  pride  by  a  lion 
and  avarice  by  a  she-wolf,  while  Beatrice  Portinari 
is  theology  triumphant. 

These  pretentious  obscurities  disconcert  us.  They 
would  spoil  Dante  for  us,  if  it  were  possible  to  spoil 
him.  But  then,  thirteenth  century  Scholasticism 
delighted  in  such  puzzles,  and  Dante  owed  almost 
all  his  fame  to  this  abuse  of  riddles. 

Similarly,  when  Rabelais  wallows  in  Greek  and 
Latin,  when  he  piles  up  references  and  quotations, 
he  wearies  us.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  however, 
it  was  this  apparatus  of  pedantry  which  particu- 
larly delighted  the  reader.  This  sauce  of  antiquity 
then  seemed  as  necessary  to  literature  as  Roman 
profiles  to  the  monuments  of  Philibert  de  L'Orme, 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

as  pagan  ruins  to  the  stained-glass  windows  of 
Jean  Cousin,  and  the  dancing  satyrs  in  the  enamels 
of  Penicaud. 

But,  I  see  you  are  pensive,  my  dear  Gourmont. 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT. — "I  was  thinking  that,  if 
the  reasons  for  liking  great  writers  change  in  this 
fashion,  the  traditional  admiration  shown  to  them 
is  most  mysterious." 

FRANCE. — Most  mysterious,  indeed.  After  all, 
if  we  continue  to  like  them,  perhaps  it  is  only  because 
we  have  got  into  the  habit  of  doing  so. 

At  this  Mr.  Brown  gave  a  start.  He  was  scan- 
dalized. 

"Oh,  M.  France.  Do  not  say  that!  Do  not 
say  that !  I  am  sure  there  are  qualities  in  the  good 
authors  which  always  remain  qualities,  yes,  always, 
always!" 

Anatole  France  gazed  ironically  at  his  interrup- 
ter, then  said  slowly,  in  a  conciliatory  tone : 

Well,  may  be  you  are  right,  Professor. 

And  he  added,  looking  at  Remy  de  Gourmont: 

Yes.  No  doubt.  Don't  you  think  so?  After 
all  .  .  .  ! 

This  is  a  string  of  phrases  which  he  habitually 
employs.  In  a  discussion,  when  he  has  well  weighed 
the  pros  and  the  cons,  when  he  has  hesitated  for  a 
long  time,  and  when  he  finally  seems  to  suspend 
judgment,  then  he  often  clings  to  some  probability 


Professor  Brown  Bewildered 

suggested  by  common  sense,  to  some  comforting 
likelihood. 

Yes.  No  doubt.  Don't  you  think  so?  After 
all  .  .  .  ! 

That  means  that  the  thing  is  not  absolutely  cer- 
tain, but  it  might  be  true,  and  that,  in  any  case,  it  is 
better  to  believe  it  is. 

Yes.  No  doubt.  Don't  you  think  so?  After 
all  .  .  .  !  great  authors  have  eternal  qualities. 

At  this  point,  Mr.  Brown's  curiosity  redoubled, 
and  he  opened  his  mouth  wider  than  ever. 

FRANCE. — //  the  slightest  trifle  from  their  pen 
enchants  us  it  is  because  a  wise  head  and  a  sensitive 
heart  always  guide  their  hand. 

It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  that  their  syntax  is 
a  little  shaky,  since  these  very  slips  are  evidence  of 
the  powerful  drive  of  the  mind  which  is  guilty  of  the 
atrocities.  It  is  the  syntax  of  passion. 

It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  that  they  pillage 
right  and  left,  and  that  sometimes  they  get  mixed  in 
the  plot  of  their  stories.  What  matters  in  them  is, 
not  the  story,  however  beautifully  told,  but  the 
opinions  and  ideas  which  it  clothes.  Like  nurses 
rocking  babies,  they  spin  us  at  haphazard  adorable 
stories  which  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  time.  We 
eagerly  swallow  the  bait,  and  there  is  wisdom  con- 
cealed in  the  honey  of  their  fables.  Thus,  in  the 
course  of  centuries  the  same  anecdotes  serve  to  ex- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

press  the  varying  thoughts  of  the  most  enlightened 
men. 

All  really  great  men  have  the  prime  virtue  of 
sincerity.  They  extirpate  hypocrisy  from  their 
hearts;  they  bravely  reveal  their  weaknesses,  their 
doubts,  their  vices.  They  dissect  themselves.  They 
expose  their  bared  souls,  so  that  all  their  contem- 
poraries may  recognize  themselves  in  this  picture, 
and  reject  the  lies  which  corrupt  their  lives.  They 
are  courageous.  They  are  not  afraid  to  challenge 
prejudices.  No  power,  civil,  moral  or  immoral, 
can  impose  upon  them. 

Sometimes,  it  is  true,  frankness  is  so  dangerous 
that  it  would  cost  them  their  liberty  or  even  their 
lives.  Under  the  most  liberal,  as  under  the  most 
tyrannical,  governments,  to  proclaim  what  will  be 
recognized  as  just  and  right  fifty  or  a  hundred  years 
later  is  sufficient  to  incur  imprisonment  or  the  scaf- 
fold. 

As  it  is  better  to  speak  than  to  be  silent,  the  wise 
often  behave  like  fools,  in  order  not  to  be  gagged. 
They  gambol,  shake  their  cap  and  bells,  and  give 
utterance  to  the  most  reasonable  follies.  They  are 
allowed  to  caper  because  they  are  take"n  for  buffoons. 
This  stratagem  must  not  be  held  up  against  them. 
"Concerning  the  opinions  which  he  held  dearly  Rabe- 
lais used  to  say  mockingly:  "I  will  maintain  them 
to  the  stake  .  .  .  exclusively."  Was  he  wrong? 
£124] 


Professor  Brown  Bewildered 

And  if  he  had  gone  to  the  stake  would  it  now  be 
possible  for  us  to  enjoy  his  pantagruelism? 

Great  writers  have  not  mean  souls.  That,  Mr. 
Brown,  is  all  their  secret. 

They  profoundly  love  their  fellow-men.  They  are 
generous — They  do  not  limit  their  affections. 
They  pity  all  suffering,  and  strive  to  soothe  it. 
They  take  compassion  on  the  poor  players  who  per- 
form in  the  comic  tragedy,  or  the  tragi-comedy, 
of  destiny.  Pity,  you  see,  is  the  very  basis  of  gen- 
ius, Professor. 

"Oh!"  cried  Mr.  Brown,  whose  eyes  were  now 
shining  with  joy  behind  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 
"Let  me  shake  your  hand,  M.  France."  And  he 
inflicted  on  him  a  hand-shake  sufficient  to  wrench 
his  shoulder  from  its  socket. 


£125:1 


A  Live  Woman  and  a 
Pretty  Doll 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty 
Doll 

That  morning  we  were  told  by  Josephine  that 
her  master  was  receiving  in  the  library.  So  we 
climbed  up  to  the  second  floor,  that  is,  to  the  top 
of  the  house,  for  M.  Bergeret  has  installed  his 
bibliotheque,  his  "Kbrairie,"  as  Montaigne  would 
have  said,  in  the  attic  of  his  dwelling.  One  pushes 
open  an  old  door,  padded  with  leather,  the  ancient 
swinging  door  of  a  vestry.  On  entering  one  would 
fancy  oneself  in  a  chapel.  A  mystical  light  filters 
through  stained-glass  windows,  ornamented  with 
venerable  coats  of  arms.  This  gentle  light  falls 
lazily  upon  a  low  ceiling  hung  with  tooled  and  gilt 
leather ;  it  clings  to  the  pyxes,  the  chalices,  the  mon- 
strances, the  patens,  and  the  censers,  with  which 
many  cabinets  are  filled  to  overflowing. 

Anatole  France  is  an  enthusiastic  collector  of  re- 
ligious objects.  There  is  nobody  in  the  world  with 
more  ecclesiastical  tastes. 

In  the  first  place,  like  a  pious  anchorite,  he  dwells 
on  the  edge  of  a  forest.  It  is  true,  the  forest  is  a 
pretty  little  one:  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Fauns 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

and  devils  of  the  female  sex  are  commoner  there 
than  wild  beasts. 

He  wears  a  long  dressing  gown  of  clerical  cut. 
It  is  true,  the  colour  is  of  a  delicate  shade  and  the 
material  soft  in  texture.  He  always  wears  a  skull 
cap  like  the  priests  in  chapel.  It  is  true,  its  colour 
is  a  revolutionary  red.  Sometimes  he  wears  a 
white  head  dress  with  pink  designs,  whith  resembles 
an  Indian  turban.  He  has  adopted  this  headgear 
from  the  region  of  Bordeaux  where  he  often  stays. 
There  the  servants  wrap  their  heads  in  handker- 
chiefs rolled  in  this  fashion,  which  give  them  an 
Oriental  grace. 

M.  Bergeret,  however,  much  prefers  his  bonnet 
of  vermilion  velvet.  It  plays  an  important  part  in  his 
gestures.  Unconsciously  he  changes  its  form  ac- 
cording to  his  thoughts.  When  he  is  merry,  it  is 
provokingly  pointed.  It  is  like  a  caricature  of  a 
tiara,  or  of  a  Venetian  corno  ducale.  At  times, 
when  he  raises  his  voice  in  irony,  it  assumes  the  dig- 
nity of  the  pschent  which  was  the  pride  of  the  Egyp- 
tian Pharaohs. 

When  he  is  listening  to  a  speaker  he  throws  it 
back  of  his  neck  in  order  that  the  passage  through 
his  forehead  may  be  freer  for  ideas.  When  he  is 
thinking  he  pulls  it  almost  down  onto  his  nose,  as 
though  to  withdraw  behind  a  visier. 

His  profile,  with  its  high  forehead  and  acquilinc 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Dqll 

nose,  is  very  long,  and  its  length  is  increased  by 
the  goatee.  The  lines  of  his  face  are  delicate  rather 
than  vigorous,  and  give  the  impression  of  great 
and  paternal  placidity.  But  the  serenity  of  this 
mask  is  belied  by  the  black  eyes,  terribly  dark  and 
prodigiously  alive,  ferreting  and  watching  on  all 
sides.  This  glance,  sparkling  with  malice  in  an 
almost  immobile  face,  sums  up  France.  It  is  the 
sharp  edge  of  his  mind  which  pierces  through  the 
beautiful  cadence  of  his  melodious  phrases. 

His  whole  person  is  a  marvel  of  harmonious 
tones.  His  skin  like  dulled  ivory,  his  silvery  hair, 
moustache  and  beard,  the  red  velvet,  compose  a 
harmony  which  would  inspire  any  painter  with  an  ir- 
resistible desire  to  seize  his  palette  and  his  brushes. 

The  Master  is  tall  and  slender.  His  natural 
nonchalance,  which  increases  his  charm,  gives  him 
the  appearance  of  having  a  slight  stoop.  Sylvestre 
Bonnard,  member  of  the  Institute,  had  "a  kind 
back,"  according  to  Princess  Trepoff.  Anatole 
France  has  an  affable  and  ironical  back,  like  Voltaire 
in  Houdon's  statue. 

To  the  young  writers  and  the  old  friends  who 
come  to  enjoy  the  flavour  of  his  discourse,  he 
preaches  his-  indulgent  philosophy  in  slow  tones  and 
with  a  slight  nasal  drawl.  And  never  did  a  religious 
orator  put  more,  unction  into  urging  belief  than 
France  into  condemning  superstition.  His  strokes 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

arc  all  the  more  deadly  because  of  his  indolent  man- 
.ner  of  speaking.  When  he  seems*  to  be  talking  to 
himself,  when  he  hazards  some  remark  in  a  most 
inoffensive  tone,  gazing  at  the  toes  of  his  slippers 
lined  with  episcopal  purple,  it  is  then  that  he  is 
most  redoubtable,  and  suddenly  his  dark  eyes  flash 
like  two  sword  points. 

When  talking  he  likes  to  stand  in  the  framework 
of  an  immense  Renaissance  chimneypiece,  in  which 
a  man  can  stand  upright.  The  mantle  of  this  fire- 
place is  decorated  with  Italian  pictures:  saints 
gathered  about  a  Virgin  who  is  nursing  a  bambino. 
Two  little  angels  in  painted  wood  are  also  visible, 
flitting  and  playing  about. 

Let  us  complete  the  furniture  of  the  library.  In 
point  of  fact,  have  we  not  omitted  the  main  thing, 
the  books? 

They  cover  a  multitude  of  shelves  from  floor  to 
ceiling.  For  the  most  part  they  are  very  old  books, 
bound  in  dark  brown  leather,  or  well  preserved  in 
a  yellowish  white  pigskin,  or  encased  in  the  parch- 
ment of  antiphonaries,  embellished  with  illuminated 
initial  headings,  and  with  notes  of  music  rn  red  and 
black.  This  last  binding  was  devised  by  Anatole 
France  and  almost  all  his  friends  have  copied  his 
charming  invention. 

A  finikin  critic  was  just  interviewing  the  creator 
[J32:] 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

of  Thai's.  He  was  going  to  publish  in  a  very 
serious  review  a  very  detailed  study  of  his  intellec- 
tual development.  The  Master  good  humouredly 
submitted  to  this  curiosity.  They  ran  rapidly  over 
his  years  at  school. 

Anatole  France  was  educated  at  Stanislas  College. 
This  calls  for  no  comment,  except  that  something 
of  his  religious  training  remains  in  his  unctuous  ex- 
terior. After  all,  it  is  not  a  bad  education,  for  it 
fashioned  Voltaire,  Renan  and  M.  Bergeret. 

Note,  said  our  host  slyly,  that  I  failed  at  the 
baccalaureat.  This  is  an  important  point.  Yes, 
Sir,  I  got  nought  in  geography.  This  is  how  it  hap- 
pened. 

Old  Hase  was  questioning  me.  This  excellent 
German,  a  very  learned  Hellenist,  had  been  ap- 
pointed professor  at  the  Sorbonne  by  the  Empire, 
which  was  internationalist,  after  a  fashion.  He 
was  given  the  task  of  trying  to  plough  candidates, 
and  he  abominated  the  job. 

"My  young  friend,"  said  he,  with  thoroughly 
Teutonic  good  nature,  "you  haf  been  warmly 
regommended  to  me." 

He  continued  in  this  strain,  but  I  will  spare  you 
his  accent. 

"Let  me  see  ...  I  will  ask  you  some  easy  ques- 
tions. The  Seine  flows  into  the  English  Channel, 
doesn't  it." 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

"Yes,  Sir"  I  replied  with  a  winning  smile. 

"Good.  Very  good.  .  .  And  the  Loire  flows 
into  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  doesn't  it? 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"Splendid!  .  .  .  The  Gironde  also  flows  into  the 
Atlantic,  doesn't  it?" 

"Certainly,  Sir." 

"Your  answers  are  admirable.  The  Rhone  flows 
into  Lake  Michigan,  doesn't  it?" 

Full  of  confidence,  I  had  not  even  listened  to  the 
insidious  question: 

"Yes,  Sir,"  said  I,  still  smiling. 

"Ha,  ha!  The  Rhone  flows  into  Lake  Mich- 
igan," muttered  old  Hase.  "My  friend,  you  are  an 
ignoramus!  You  are  an  ass!  You  will  get  double 
nought." 

We  began  to  laugh.  But  this  anecdote  did  not 
meet  the  requirements  of  the  critic.  He  sought 
more  serious  information. 

"I  should  like  some  information,"  said  he,  "as 
to  your  sources.  In  many  of  your  works,  and 
especially  in  the  Jar  din  d' Epicure,  you  have  given 
proof  of  profound  scientific  knowledge.  Could  you 
tell  me  from  what  treatises  you  obtained  it?" 

"Why,  certainly.  That  is  very  easy.  I  consul- 
ted a  book  by  Camille  Flammarion,  which  is  called 
I  think,  "Astronomy  for  Children."  No,  I  am 
wrong.  The  exact  title  is:  "Popular  Astronomy." 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

The  critic  nearly  fell  off  his  chair. 

FRANCE. — /  also  get  my  most  solid  erudition 
from  Larousse's  Dictionary.  Yes,  Sir,  Larousse's 
Dictionary  is  a  most  useful  publication. 

The  critic  could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 

Our  host  was  assuredly  amused  at  his  stupefac- 
tion, and  purposely  provoked  it. 

My  dear  Sir,  the  important  thing  perhaps  is  not 
my  scientific  attainments,  which  are  slight,  but 
rather  the  effect  of  modern  discoveries  on  a  mind 
formed  by  prolonged  commerce  with  the  charming, 
subtle,  humane  authors  of  our  country. 

He  pointed  to  the  old  books  which  burdened  the 
shelves  of  his  library: 

There  are  my  sources.  You  will  find  there 
only  great  or  delightful  writers  who  spoke  good 
French,  that  is,  who  thought  well,  for  the  one  is 
impossible  without  the  other.  I  have  tried  to  say 
as  well  as  possible  of  the  things  I  have  seen  and 
learned  in  my  own  time  what  those  fine  minds  of  old 
would  have  said,  if  they  had  seen  and  learned  the 
same  things. 

Josephine  handed  him  a  visiting  card.  He  put 
on  his  huge  horn  spectacles,  for  he  has  an  enormous 
pair,  such  as  one  sees  in  certain  portraits  by  El 
Greco  or  Velazquez. 

From  my  friend  B ?     Show  him  in. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

A  very  young  man,  fair,  pink  and  beardless,  made 
his  appearance. 

What  can  I  do  for  you?  asked  France. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  (rubbing  his  stomach  with  a 
very  shiny  silk  hat)  — 

"Ba  ...  ba  ...  bah  ...  bah  ...  M.  France 
.  .  .  Master  .  .  .  you  ...  It  is  ...  I  ... 

FRANCE,  (very  paternally) — Come,  my  friend. 
Won't  you  sit  down? 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  (crimson) — I  have  come 
about  ...  I  have  a  little  girl  cousin  who  collects 
autographs  ...  so  ...  you  ...  I  ...  she  .  .  . 

FRANCE. — She  has  sent  you  to  get  one  from  me. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  (radiant) — Y-yes!  Y-yes! 
Master.  I  should  be  happy  to  do  my  cousin  this 
favour. 

FRANCE,  (touched) — //  is  an  admirable  ambi- 
tion, my  child.  Where  the  devil  has  my  pen  got  to? 

THE  YOU.NG  MAN. — Oh!  Master!  I  do  not  want 
to  disturb  you  just  now. 

FRANCE. — Then  I  shall  send  you  what  you  want. 
I  have  your  address.  .  .  . 

What  does  your  charming  cousin  prefer,  verse  or 
prose? 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  (in  the  seventh  heaven)  — 
Verse ! 

FRANCE. — All  right.  It  is  understood.  I  shall 
send  you  some  lines  of  poetry. 

r.1363 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

Thereupon  the  youth,  covered  with  blushes,  made 
his  bow. 

"That  autograph  is  three  or  four  times  blessed," 
said  some  one,  "since  it  will  secure  for  this  amiable 
youth  the  favours  of  his  young  lady  cousin." 

FRANCE. — He  flattered  me  by  asking  for  'verse, 
for  I  am  not  a  poet. 

There  were  protests.  Poemes  dores  and  Les 
Noces  Corinthiennes  were  cited. 

/  have  written  verse,  he  said,  yet  I  am  not  a  poet. 
I  do  not  think  in  verse,  but  in  prose,  and  I  turn  my 
prose  into  verse.  Real  poets  think  in  verse.  That 
is  the  distinguishing  sign.  I  knew  one  who  some- 
times even  spoke  in  verse,  Anthony  Deschamps. 
He  was  not  negligible,  and  in  my  opinion  deserved 
more  glory.  His  memory  haunts  me,  because  I 
saw  him  in  striking  surroundings.  He  had  been  in- 
sane. After  he  was  cured  he  did  not  wish  to  leave 
the  asylum,  because  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  the 
keeper's  wife.  We  went  to  hear  him  recite  his 
poems  in  the  courtyard  of  the  institution.  At  every 
verse  some  lunatic  would  come  ^nd  stare  into  his 
face,  sneer  and  disappear.  Others  would  crouch 
down  in  front  of  him,  stick  out  their  tongues,  walk 
on  all  fours  and  dance  around  us.  He  gently  pushed 
them  away  and  continued  to  recite.  It  reminded 
one  of  Tasso  among  the  madmen,  or  Dante  in  hell. 
This  fantastic  vision  still  haunts  me. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Victor  Hugo  also  spoke  in  verse  sometimes. 

Suddenly  our  host  remarked  in  the  most  innocent 
fashion  in  the  world: 

What  is  poetry,  after  all?  An  amusement  for 
children.  .  .  .  It  is  simply  the  game  of  corbillon.1 

"Dans  mon  corbillon  que  met-on?" 

"Un  melon,  des  oignons,  des  citrons,  des  cornichons." 

He  became  serious  again. 

/  should  not  make  fun  of  it.  No.  Rhyme  is  not 
just  a  pastime.  In  our  language,  where  the  differ- 
ence between  long  and  short  vowels  is  so  imper- 
ceptible, it  is  the  only  natural  way  of  strongly  mark- 
ing the  cadence.  The  recurrence  of  the  same 
sounds  divides  the  phrases  into  lines  of  a  certain 
number  of  syllables,  and  thus  brings  out  the  rhythm 
more  clearly. 

Moreover,  rhyme  is  not  a  difficulty  for  real  poets. 
As  they  think  in  images  they  command  a  much  larger 
vocabulary  than  prose  writers,  and  can  easily  draw 
upon  it  for  all  their  rhymes.  What  is  an  image? 
It  is  a  comparison.  Now,  all  things  can  be  com- 
pared with  one  another:  the  moon  to  a  cheese,  and 
a  broken  heart  to  a  cracked  pot.  So  images  furnish 
an  almost  unlimited  supply  of  words  and  rhymes. 
Still  better,  rhyme  calls  attention  to  the  image  like 

1 A  game  in  which  every  word  must  rhyme  with  on   (Trans- 
lator's note). 

CI38H 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

the  tinkling  of  a  bell.  Add  the  fact  that  every 
poet  has  his  own  images,  his  multicoloured  epithets, 
and  consequently  an  immense  reserve  of  rhymes, 
which  is  the  property  of  his  genius. 

Corneille  rhymes  with  heroic  words:  front, 
affront,  outrage,  rage.  Racine  rhymes  with  tender 
and  painful  adjectives:  deplorable,  miserable.  The 
rhymes  of  La  Fontaine  are  mocking;  those  of 
Moliere  are  wanton,  etc. 

The  fact  is,  every  great  poet  discovers  his  own 
new  world.  One  finds  a  land  of  heroism,  another 
of  burning  passion;  one  of  mockery  and  another  of 
generous  gaiety.  And  the  imaged  rhymes  are,  as 
it  were,  the  flowers  of  those  mysterious  shores. 
They  grow  abundantly  beneath  the  feet  of  the  ex- 
plorer. He  has  only  to  stoop  and  pick  those  whose 
colours  harmonize.  A  bouquet  of  rhymes  is  the 
perfume,  the  ornament  of  the  shores  where  each 
dreamer  landed.  It  expresses  the  shade  of  his  im- 
agination. 

There  are,  in  truth,  excellent  poets  in  whose  work 
imagination  and  feeling  take  the  place  of  every- 
thing else,  even  of  intelligence. 

"According  to  Renan,"  some  one  remarked,  "Vic- 
tor Hugo's  stupidity  was  stupendous." 

FRANCE. — Yes.  No  doubt,  he  was  stupid.  I 
agree.  But  his  was  the  most  delicately  strung  tern- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

perament,  and  in  spite  of  ourselves  we  still  respond 
to  his  thrills.  We  Parnassians  have  been  accused 
of  having  tried  to  explode  his  reputation.  That  is 
not  true.  We  held  him  in  the  greatest  respect. 
We  even  thought  of  him  as  the  leader  of  our  little 
group.  That  was  when  we  were  founding  the 
Parnassian  movement.  We  had  foregathered  many 
times  at  Lemerre's,  the  publisher's,  and  the  first 
number  of  our  review  was  on  the  eve  of  publication. 
We  were  trying  to  find  something  that  would  draw 
the  attention  of  the  universe  to  our  new-born  child. 

One  of  us,  I  cannot  remember  whom,  suggested 
that  we  ask  Victor  Hugo,  then  in  exile  in  Guernesey, 
for  a  prefatory  letter.  The  idea  was  received  with 
enthusiasm,  and  we  immediately  wrote  to  the  illus- 
trious exile.  A  few  days  later  an  extraordinary 
epistle  reached  us: 

"Young  men,  I  belong  to  the  past:  you  are  the 
future.  I  am  but  a  leaf:  you  are  the  forest.  I  am 
but  a  flickering  taper:  you  are  the  rays  of  the  sun. 
I  am  but  one  of  the  oxen:  you  are  the  wise  men  of 
the  East.  I  am  but  a  rivulet:  you  are  the  Ocean. 
1  am  but  a  molehill:  you  are  the  Alps.  I  am  .  .  . 
etc.  .  .  .  etc.  .  .  ." 

This  went  on  through  four  large  pages,  and  was 
signed  Victor  Hugo. 

Together  we  read  this  terrifying  missive.  At  the 
second  line  we  burst  out  laughing;  at  the  fourth  we 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

were  holding  our  sides;  at  the  tenth  we  were  in  con- 
vulsions. C  a  tulle  Mendes  declared  that  we  were 
the  'victims  of  a  hateful  trick.  This  eccentric  reply 
could  not  have  come  from  the  great  man.  Imperial 
police  spies  must  have  intercepted  our  request  and 
have  tried  to  play  a  practical  joke  on  us.  But  we 
would  not  be  caught. 

We  took  counsel  together  as  to  what  we  should 
do.  The  result  of  this  conference  was  that  we 
corresponded  with  Juliette  Drouet,  who  was  living 
at  the  time  in  Guernesey,  near  her  deity.  We  con- 
fided our  mishap  to  her  and  our  impatience  to  have 
a  real  letter  from  Victor  Hugo. 

Six  days  later  we  received  a  reply  from  Juliette 
Drouet.  The  poor  woman  was  heartbroken.  The 
first  letter  really  was  from  Victor  Hugo.  His  de- 
voted friend  assured  us  of  the  fact.  She  was  even 
surprised  at  our  scepticism,  for,  after  all,  she  said, 
his  genius  was  self-evident  in  these  four  pages. 

Nevertheless,  we  did  not  publish  the  epistle  of  the 
sublime  poet.  Our  pious  thought  was  that  it  would 
not  do  him  honour.  How  naive  we  were!  The 
gods  cannot  be  dishonoured. 

Anatole  France  continued: 

Granted  that  he  was  not  intelligent.  His  sensi- 
tiveness has  influenced  that  of  all  his  contempor- 
aries. What  is  most  characteristic  of  the  man  is 
those  intimate  impressions  which  had  never  been  so 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

profoundly  analysed:  the  feelings  of  a  lover,  of  a 
father  at  the  grave  of  his  daughter,  of  a  mother 
beside  the  cradle  of  her  child. 

"Sa  pauvre  mere,  helas!  de  son  sort  ignorante, 
Avoir  mis  tant  d'amour  sur  ce  frele  roseau, 
Et  si  longtemps  veille  son  enfance  souffrante, 
Et  passe  tant  de  nuits  a  1'endormir  pleurante, 
Toute  petite  en  son  berceau!" 

That  is  peculiarly  his  own.  And  by  insisting 
upon  the  store  each  one  of  us  sets  upon  the  secrets 
of  the  heart,  he  modified  our  souls.  He  helped  to 
quicken  the  life  of  the  emotions. 

Oh!  I  know  that  many  others  have  reaped  the 
same  field,  but  it  was  he  who  bound  the  sheaves. 
He  was  a  powerful  binder.  When  one  feels  with 
such  intensity,  intelligence  is  unnecessary.  One  has 
more  influence  than  the  cleverest  logicians.  Even 
the  logicians  do  nothing  more  perhaps  than  express 
in  well-balanced  syllogisms  the  flights  of  the 
prophets  who  are  supposed  to  be  lacking  in  intelli- 
gence. 

I  am  very  glad,  said  the  critic,  to  hear  you  prais- 
ing the  formidable  originality  of  Victor  Hugo. 

FRANCE. — He  was  certainly  original . .  .  but,  take 
care!  Let  us  beware  of  exaggeration. 

All  at  once,  after  having  celebrated  with  such 
spirit  the  personal  qualities  of  the  giant,  M.  Ber- 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

geret,  with  the  habitual  pendulum-swing  of  his  un- 
bounded dialectical  skill,  began  to  point  out  all  that 
the  author  of  La  Legende  des  siecles  owed  to  tradi- 
tion. 

The  truth  is  that  what  the  best  poets,  the 
greatest  writers,  bring  back  from  their  travels  in 
the  realm  of  fancy  is  as  nothing  beside  the  treasures 
accumulated  by  their  predecessors.  Victor  Hugo  is 
regarded  as  a  wonderful  innovator.  But  just  think. 
He  owed  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  his  genius  to 
others.  However  original  he  seems,  his  versifica- 
tion is  traditional.  It  is  the  alexandrine.  A  cer- 
tain liberty  in  the  caesura  and  the  enjambement,  I 
admit,  but  still  an  alexandrine. 

Then,  his  language — did  he  invent  it?  Let  us 
go  a  step  further.  The  alphabet  which  he  uses.  .  .  . 

EsCHOLiER.2 — If  you  talk  about  language  and 
alphabet.  .  .  . ! 

FRANCE. — What  of  it?  They  must,  of  course, 
be  discussed. 

What  would  our  thoughts  be  without  words? 
What  would  words  be  without  the  letters  which  en- 
able us  to  represent  them  easily.  We  do  not  think 
enough,  my  dear  friends,  about  the  men  of  genius 
who  conceived  the  idea  of  representing  sounds  by 

2  Raymond  Escholler,  <wko  interrupted  here  to  defend  the  origi- 
nality of  Victor  Hugo,  has  since  become  the  official  priest  of  the 
demi-god.  He  is  the  Keeper  of  the  museum  in  the  Place  des 
Vosges. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

signs.  Yet,  it  was  they  who  rendered  possible  the 
dizzy  mental  gymnastics  of  the  Western  world. 
And  those  who  gradually  created  speech?  Did 
they  not  furnish  us  with  the  very  tissue  of  our  argu- 
ments? 

Grammatical  constructions  govern  the  habits  of 
the  mind.  So,  we  can  not  escape  from  the  in- 
fluence of  those  who  spoke  French  before  us,  who 
gave  it  form,  and  made  it  famous.  Together  with 
their  words,  their  syntax  and  their  rhythms,  we  have 
inherited  their  ideas,  which  we  scarcely  enrich.  I 
was  wrong  in  saying  that  Victor  Hugo  owed  to 
others  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  his  genius.  I 
should  have  said  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
thousandths. 

Just  then  Captain  X.  entered. 

He  is  a  Jew,  with  a  hatchet  face,  a  curved  nose, 
hollow,  feverish  eyes,  and  a  weather-beaten  skin, 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  smoked:  the  phy- 
sique of  one  who  lives  on  locusts  and  wild  honey. 
A  proselyte  to  humanitarianism,  he  is  the  modern 
depositary  of  that  flame  which  so  nobly  aroused 
the  old  crusaders  against  existing  institutions.  Like 
them  he  is  always  marching  towards  the  Promised 
Land,  where  there  is  nothing  to  recall  the  accursed 
past. 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

After  shaking  hands  with  Anatole  France,  he 
said: 

"You  know  several  of  my  hobby-horses,  amongst 
others  pacifism  and  negrophilism.  I  have  a  new 
one:  Esperanto. 

"Yes,  I  am  one  of  those  who  are  working  to 
establish  a  common  language  amongst  all  men,  and 
to  reconcile  the  workers  of  the  Tower  of  Babel." 

Thereupon,  the  captain  launched  into  a  little 
propaganda  speech: 

"Esperanto  is  the  best  means  of  communication 
for  business  men.  After  eight  days'  practice  Es- 
perantists  are  able  to  correspond." 

FRANCE. — Gentlemen  in  commercial  life  would 
do  well,  then,  to  learn  this  language. 

THE  CAPTAIN. — "But  it  has  loftier  ambitions. 
We  have  translated  a  selection  of  masterpieces  from 
every  country.  Your  Crainquebille  is  one  of  them, 
and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  authorize  the  publi- 
cation in  Esperanto  of  another  of  your  works." 

FRANCE. — /  should  not  like  to  rebuff  a  friend, 
but  I  would  prefer  him  not  to  make  such  a  request 
of  me. 

THE  CAPTAI.N. — "What  is  your  objection  to  Es- 
peranto, my  dear  Master?" 

FRANCE. — Why,  nothing*.  On  the  contrary,  I 
greatly  approve  of  your  zeal  in  wishing  to  facilitate 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

commercial  relations.  I  should  be  delighted  if  it 
were  possible  for  all  men  to  understand  one  another 
without  the  trouble  of  prolonged  studies.  I  am 
sure  a  universal  language  would  dissipate  cruel  mis- 
understandings between  them. 

But  then,  is  your  Esperanto,  which  would  doubt- 
less render  great  practical  services,  capable  of  inter- 
preting even  the  most  fugitive  appearance  of  ideas? 

THE  CAPTAI.N. — "I  assure  you  that.  .  .  ." 

FRANCE. — Ah,  no!  For  it  is  not  born  of  suffer- 
ing and  joy.  It  has  not  borne  the  lamentations  and 
hymns  of  the  human  soul.  It  is  a  mechanical  thing, 
constructed  by  a  scholar.  'It  is  not  life. 

Come,  my  dear  Captain.  Let  us  suppose  that 
you  have  been  made  a  present  of  a  wonderful  doll. 
Its  big  soft  eyes  are  shaded  with  long  eyelashes 
divinely  curved.  Its  mouth  is  deliciously  red,  and 
is  like  the  pulp  of  a  cherry.  Its  hair  is  like  spun 
sunlight.  It  smiles  at  you.  It  talks  to  you.  It 
calls  you  "my  darling." 

Would  you  love  it? 

Suppose  that  you  found  yourself  for  a  long  time 
alone  with  it  on  a  desert  island,  and  that  suddenly 
a  real  woman  appeared,  even  rather  ugly,  but,  after 
all,  a  live  woman.  Is  it  to  the  doll  you  would  ad- 
dress your  madrigals? 

Your  Esperanto  is  the  doll.  The  French  lan- 
guage is  a  live  woman.  And  this  woman  is  so 

[1463 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

beautiful,  so  proud,  so  modest,  so  daring,  so  touch- 
ing, so  voluptuous,  so  chaste,  so  noble,  so  familiar, 
so  foolish,  so  wise,  that  one  loves  her  with  all  one's 
soul,  and  is  never  tempted  to  be  unfaithful  to  her. 

We  all  burst  into  laughter,  and  the  captain 
seemed  a  little  peeved.  Brousson  said  to  him  ma- 
liciously: 

"Pygmalion  breathed  life  into  his  statue.  Per- 
haps your  passion  will  effect  the  same  miracle  in 
favour  of  your  doll." 

"Young  man,"  said  the  captain  with  some  heat, 
"you  are  sparkling,  no  doubt,  but  could  you  not  put 
a  little  water  in  your  champagne?" 

"And  you,  Captain,"  said  Brousson,  "a  little 
champagne  in  your  water?" 

Anatole  France  interrupted  the  dispute: 

My  dear  Captain,  I  will  propose  a  test  for  you. 

THE  CAPTAIN. — "As  many  as  you  like !" 

FRANCE. — Here  are  two  lines  of  Racine.  I  am 
choosing  the  most  musical,  I  warn  you.  They  are 
heavenly  music: 

"Ariane,  ma  soeur,  de  quelle  amour  blessee, 
Vous  mourutes  aux  bords  ou  vous  futes  laissee!" 

Come  now!     Translate  that  into  Esperanto! 

Boldly,  as  if  he  had  drawn  his  sword  to  charge 
at  the  head  of  his  company,  the  captain  pronounced 
in  a  loud  voice  some  words  of  the  idiom  which  he  so 
ardently  extolled. 

CI47] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Come!  Come!  said  France  to  him  very  gently, 
touching  his  arm.  The  verdict  is  obvious,  my  dear 
friend* 

Once  again,  how  could  the  work  of  a  grammar- 
ian, however  learned,  compete  with  a  living  Ian- 
guage,  in  which  millions  of  men  have  expressed 
their  grief  and  their  joy,  in  which  the  laboured 
breathing  of  the  people  and  the  chattering  of  pretty 
magpies  in  the  drawing-rooms  are  both  per- 
ceptible; in  which  are  heard  the  roar  of  all  the 
handicrafts,  the  rumble  of  all  revolutions,  the 
death  rattle  of  despair  and  the  murmur  of  dreams. 
How  beautiful  words  are,  haloed  with  the  memory 
of  long  usage! 

This  word  has  rung  clear  as  a  bell  in  a  line  of 
Corneille.  That  one  has  languished  in  a  hemi- 
stitch  of  Racine.  Another  has  gathered  the  per- 
fume of  thyme  and  wild  flowers  in  a  fable  of  La 
Fontaine.  They  all  glitter  with  infinite  shades 
which  they  have  acquired  in  the  course  of  centuries. 

Just  think,  my  dear  friend,  the  words  for  "laugh" 
and  "cry"  have  not  the  same  meaning  in  French  as 
in  other  languages,  because  no  other  man  has 
laughed  like  Moliere,  like  Reynard,  or  like  Beau- 
marchais.  No  woman  has  wept  like  certain  great 
Frenchwomen  who  have  loved,  Mile,  de  Lespinasse, 

3  M.  Anatole  France,  however,  has  modified  his  attitude.  Phil- 
osophically, he  ended  by  allowing,  in  addition  to  "Crainquebille," 
several  of  his  admirable  short  stories  to  be  translated  into  Esperanto. 


A  Live  Woman  and  a  Pretty  Doll 

for  example.  Well,  I  want  my  ideas  to  rest  upon 
words  in  which  the  sentiments  of  all  our  dead  still 
live. 

THE  CAPTAI.N. — But,  then  you  condemn  all 
translations. 

FRANCE. — Not  at  all.  Have  you  forgotten  the 
apologue  of  the  doll?  The  other  living  languages 
are  real  women.  And  I  do  not  feel  any  great  re- 
pugnance to  entrust  my  thoughts  to  them,  however: 

"J'aime  mieux  ma  mie,  6  gue!     J'aime  mieux  ma  mie." 

/  prefer  my  own  beloved  tongue.  I  shall  be 
happy,  only  too  happy,  if  I  have  been  able  to  add  a 
new  beauty  to  that  which  I  have  received  so  limpid, 
so  luminous,  so  beneficent  and  so  human. 


£149:3 


M.  Bergeret  Collaborates 
with  the  Divine  Sarah 


M.   Bergeret  Collaborates  with 
the  Divine  Sarah 

M.  Bergeret  does  and  does  not  like  the  theatre. 
He  likes  it  because  a  den  of  mummers  arouses  his 
curiosity.  He  is  amused  by  actors,  who  have  the 
brains  and  the  vanity  of  peacocks.  He  is  attracted 
by  actresses,  because  of  their  gracefulness,  their 
princely  manners,  their  superb  vacuity,  or  their  ma- 
licious cleverness,  and  by  the  swarm  of  coxcombs, 
nincompoops,  financial  sharks  and  political  puppets, 
which  gravitates  about  them. 

He  does  not  like  the  theatre  because  ...  he 
doesn't. 

The  art  of  the  stage  seems  rather  clumsy  to  this 
subtle  logician,  who  tends  a  flock  of  ideas  as  light 
and  many-hued  as  the  clouds.  He  has  written  very 
little  for  the  theatre.  When  he  composed  the 
Noces  Corinthiennes  he  certainly  never  dreamt  that 
it  would  one  day  be  performed. 

It  was  produced,  however,  first  at  the  Odeon,  be- 
fore the  war,  and  afterwards,  in  1918,  at  the  Co- 
medie  Franchise.  It  may  be  remembered  perhaps, 
that,  on  the  night  of  the  first  performance  at  the 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

latter  theatre,  the  Gothas  dropped  on  Paris  their 
eggs  laden  with  terror.  The  harmonious  lines  were 
spoken  to  the  heroic  accompaniment  of  the  noise  of 
sirens,  bombs  and  cannon.  This  anachronism,  in 
a  classical  subject,  so  far  from  hurting  its  success 
rather  increased  it.  The  venerable  M.  Silvain  an- 
nounced that  the  performance  would  continue,  and 
the  audience,  delighted  with  their  own  courage, 
brought  down  the  house  with  their  applause  for  both 
the  players  and  the  author  who,  forgetting  his  con- 
tempt for  such  solemn  vanities,  was  present  at  the 
production. 

A  farce  of  Anatole  France's  is  also  mentioned, 
entitled  La  Comedie  de  celui  qui  epousa  une  femme 
muette.  It  is  a  reconstruction  of  a  pretty  fable 
which  is  mentioned  in  the  third  book  of  PantagrueL 
He  published  it  in  I' Illustration,  but  would  not  allow 
it  to  be  played  except  to  an  audience  of  Rabelaisians. 
However,  out  of  affection  for  Lucien  Guitry  he  made 
of  Crainquebille  an  exquisite  little  play,  in  which  the 
great  artist  scored  a  triumph.  For  the  rest,  indus- 
trious adapters  have  often  displayed  the  glorious 
name  of  Anatole  France  on  the  theatrical  posters. 
At  the  Vaudeville  Le  Lys  Rouge  thrived  for  a  long 
time  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights.  At  the  Theatre 
Antoine,  the  Crime  de  Syhestre  Bonnard  was  pro- 
duced. Gemier  was  excellent  in  it,  as  usual. 

It  is  Gemier,  too,  who  will  shortly  stage  Les 


M.  Bergeret 

Dieux  ont  soif.  Vivid  pictures  of  the  French  Rev- 
olution will  whirl  amidst  the  shouting  of  Qa  ira  and 
the  Carmagnole. 

Sometimes  musicians  have  attuned  their  fiddles 
to  the  fantasy  of  M.  Bergeret.  Massenet  religiously 
offered  his  crochets  and  arpeggios  to  the  courtesan 
Thais.  And  lately  in  the  comic  opera  of  the  Relne 
Pedauque  the  good  Abbe  Jerome  Coignard  surprised 
us  by  sending  forth  pleasant  trills  and  skilful 
quavers,  right  up  to  the  "flies." 

When  the  libretto  of  Thais  is  mentioned  to  him, 
M.  Bergeret  smiles  maliciously: 

Gallet  confided  to  me  that  he  would  not  be  able 
to  retain  the  name  of  Paphnuce  for  my  hero,  because 
he  had  difficulty  in  making  it  rhyme  with  noble 
words.  All  he  could  find  was  "puce"  and  "prepuce," 
and  he  was  not  satisfied  with  that.  So  he  chose 
another  name,  Athanael.  Athanael  rhymes  with 
"del,"  "autel,"  "irreel"  "miel,"  which  are  nice 
words  fit  for  polite  society. 

"All  right,  then.  Let  it  be  Athanael!"  I  said 
to  him.  M.  Bergeret  added,  mezza  voce: 

Between  ourselves,  I  prefer  Paphnuce! 

One  morning  at  the  Villa  Sai'd  a  queen  of  the 
footlights,  Mme.  M.,  was  one  of  the  company,  and, 
of  course,  dramatic  art  came  up  for  discussion.  A 
young  poet  mentioned  that  he  was  finishing  a  play. 

CI553 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

FRANCE. — 7  congratulate  you,  my  friend,  on 
working  for  mimes.  As  they  mumble  abominably — 
with  a  few  exceptions,  such  as  our  dear  M.,  who 
speaks  verse  as  divinely  as  the  Muses  themselves — 
as  one  cannot  hear  a  word  they  are  saying,  you  are 
at  liberty  to  display  your  genius. 

THE  YOUNG  POET. — "Master,  I  do  not  see  ex- 
actly what  advantage  I  shall  derive  from  their  mum- 
bling." 

FRANCE. — What  advantage?  Ungrateful  wretch! 
.  .  .  Remember  that  you  will  not  have  to  be  afraid 
of  shocking  the  public,  which  will  not  hear  a  single 
word  of  your  text.  You  will  not  be  compelled  to 
make  any  concessions.  You  can  say  anything.  It 
will  be  possible  for  you  to  express  in  the  most 
original  language  the  newest  and  most  daring  ideas. 
Is  that  not  the  height  of  bliss  for  a  writer? 

The  young  poet  made  a  wry  face. 

France  continued: 

It  must  be  admitted  that  in  the  theatre  fine  shades 
are  quite  lost.  Claptrap  is  the  only  thing  that  has 
any  chance  of  reaching  the  public  ear.  Corneille 
knew  that  well.  His  lapidary  phrases  are  models 
of  stage  style,  but  I  do  not  praise  him  so  much  for 
having  found  those  sublime  phrases  which  create  an 
uproar,  as  for  having  employed  them  with  a  certain 
discretion.  After  all,  in  a  pastime  of  that  sort, 
the  most  difficult  thing  is  to  know  when  to  stop. 

CI563 


M.  Bergeret 

Que  vouliez-vous  qu'il  fit  centre  trois? 

Qu'il  mourut! 

It  is  magnificent,  and  it  could  go  on  for  ever. 
Valere  might  -protest: 

Mais  c'etait  votre  fils. 

Whereupon  old  Horace  would  yell  in  reply : 
Mon  fils,  il  ne  Test  plus! 

Imagine  a  prolonged  jingle  of  such  clashing 
phrases,  and  the  whole  house  would  become  deliri- 
ous. The  method  is  easy,  and  we  must  confess  that 
the  great  Corneille  really  used  it  discreetly. 

France  continued : 

The  language  of  the  theatre  is  not  that  of  liters 
ture.  Is  it  worse?  I  cannot  say.  For  instance,  it 
is  often  said  that  Moliere  writes  badly.  The  truth 
is,  he  writes  for  the  ear  and  not  for  the  eye,  that  is, 
in  such  a  way  as  to  overcome  the  inattention  and  the 
weariness  of  the  audience,  and  the  wretched  elo- 
cution of  bad  actors.  He  often  repeats  the  same 
thing  three  or  four  times,  to  make  sure  that  it  is 
understood.  Out  of  six  or  eight  lines  there  are 
sometimes  only  two  that  count.  The  others  are 
simply  padding  which  enables  the  spectator  to 
rest  his  mind  before  coaching  the  essential 
words  a  moment  or  two  later.  Listen  to  Al- 
eeste: 

Non,  non,  il  n'est  point  d'ame  un  peu  bien  situcc, 
Qui  veuille  d'une  estime  ainsi  prostituee. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

The  sense  Is  complete  and  it  is  deep  enough  to 
arouse  reflection.  Here  is  the  sequel: 

Et  la  plus  glorieuse  a  des  regals  peu  chers 

Des  qu'on  voit  qu'on  nous  mele  avec  tout  1'univers. 

That  is  pure  nonsense   .    .    .   but  it  is  dramatic. 

MME.  M. — "How  hard  you  are  on  our  poor 
theatre  I" 

FRANCE. — Not  at  all.  Let  me  explain.  It  is 
beyond  question  that  these  last  two  lines  are  detesta- 
ble. What  is  the  meaning  of  "the  cheap  delights 
of  the  most  glorious  esteem?"  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  "as  soon  as  one  sees  oneself  confounded  with 
the  whole  universe?"  The  repetitions  of  the  same 
word  are  horrible.  The  meaning  which  one  vaguely 
perceives  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  of  the  preceding 
two  lines.  Why,  then,  this  redundancy,  one  asks? 

It  is  useful  precisely  because  it  is  superfluous,  that 
is,  because  these  meaningless  words  which  are  not 
heard  give  the  audience  time  to  dwell  upon  the  two 
very  beautiful  lines  that  precede.  Moreover,  in 
that  admirable  distich,  a  purist  might  object  to  the 
lameless  of  the  locution  "un  peu  bien."  But  what 
of  that?  That  locution  is  not  heard  either.  The 
effective  words  are  those  which,  being  placed  where 
the  caesura  falls,  or  at  the  end  of  the  line,  are 
stressed  by  the  rhythm:  "dme,"  "bien  situee,"  "es- 
time,"  "prostituee."  These  notes  ring  so  clear  that 


M.  Bergeret 

one  is  compelled  to  hear  them,  and  they  satisfy  the 
mind.  With  the  instinct  of  genius,  Moliere  has  al- 
ways shaped  his  best  lines  in  this  way.  The  cadence 
gives  balance  to  the  principal  terms,  which  occur  at 
the  caesura  and  the  rhyme.  For  example,  Donne 
says  to  Tartufe: 

Et  je  vous  verrais  nu,  du  haut  jusques  en  has, 
Que  toute  votre  peau  ne  me  tenterait  pas. 

Observe  the  spirit  infused  into  the  words  "nu" 
"jusques  en  bas,"  "peau"  and  "tenterait  pas."  On 
the  other  hand,  Moliere  often  filled  up  the  interstices 
with  feeble  words,  simply  to  preserve  the  measure. 

I  prefer  his  prose  which  is  no  less  substantial,  but 
does  not  force  him  to  pad  it  out.  But  may  be  I  am 
wrong,  because  in  a  theatre  poetic  rhythm,  even 
when  obtained  at  the  cost  of  a  few  defects,  launches 
the  words  with  more  vigour. 

Some  one  wondered  that  France,  in  his  quotations, 
should  be  able  to  draw  on  an  infallible  memory. 

The  Master's  mocking  reply  was : 

It  is  because  I  was  a  very  bad  scholar.  All  the 
lines  I  have  been  set  to  write  have  engraved  many 
verses  on  my  memory. 

A  moment  later : 

There  is  no  denying  it,  Moliere  forces  us  to  listen 
to  him,  and  he  makes  us  laugh,  for  it  is  foolish  to 
say  that  he  is  sad.  It  was  the  Romanticists  who 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

attributed  to  him  their  own  melancholy.  They  have 
made  of  him  a  saturnine  hero,  a  Manfred,  a  Lara, 
an  Obermann.  They  have  denatured  him. 

He  wished  to  be  comic,  and  he  really  is.  Even  his 
Alceste  is  gay;  yes,  indeed,  he  is  gay.  He  is  subtly 
humorous,  only  we  do  not  understand  him  properly 
nowadays. 

My  friend  Pelletan,  the  publisher,  asked  me  one 
day  for  a  preface  to  the  "Misanthrope"  I 
promised  it  to  him.  More  than  once  he  reminded 
me  of  my  promise. 

"My  preface!"  he  would  beg,  whenever  I  visited 
his  shop.  Irritated  by  this,  I  chanced  to  reply  that  I 
would  certainly  not  write  it.  He  looked  so  heart- 
broken that  I  thought  he  was  contemplating  suicide, 
so  I  corrected  myself. 

"I  will  not  write  a  preface,  but  a  dialogue." 

The  word  dialogue  had  just  caught  my  eye  in  the 
shop  window  on  the  cover  of  a  translation  of  Lucian. 

He  jumped  for  joy.  His  flaming  red  hair 
touched  the  ceiling,  and  his  eyes  sparkled: 

"A  dialogue,  excellent!  A  title  page  in  three 
colours.  The  characters  in  small  Capitals.  The 
text  in  italics.  A  masterpiece,  it  will  be  a  master- 
piece!" 

What  he  meant  was  a  masterpiece  of  typography, 
for  he  is  convinced  that  it  is  typography  which  makes 
a  writer's  talent. 


M.  Bergeret 

So  I  imagined  the  conversation  between  Alceste 
and  a  critic. 

"You  are  sad,  Alceste,"  says  the  critic. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replies,  "I  am  a  buffoon." 

Then  he  explains  that  he  is  not  more  than  twenty- 
three  to  twenty-five  years  ojd.  He  is  in  love.  He 
wants  to  marry.  Now,  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
the  nobles  married  at  twenty-five,  at  the  latest.  To 
wait  beyond  that  was  to  depart  from  good  usage. 
At  forty  one  was  a  graybeard.  To  try,  at  that  age, 
to  light  the  hymeneal  torch  was  to  invite  ridicule. 
Arnolphe  is  forty.  It  was  regarded  as  unreasonable 
of  him  to  have  pretensions  to  marrying  Agnes. 

In  Moliere  an  old  man  of  forty  is  fated  to  become 
a  cuckold.  It  is  a  matter  of  course. 

Alceste,  then,  is  a  greenhorn,  and  the  funny  thing 
is  that  this  young  prig,  who  ought  to  abandon  him- 
self entirely  to  the  carelessness  of  youth,  takes  it 
upon  himself  to  deliver  homilies  to  everybody.  It  is 
the  contrast  between  his  blond  wig  and  his  morose 
appearance  which  is  the  very  basis  of  the  comedy. 
Note,  also  that,  if  he  grumbles,  it  is  only  when  he  is 
personally  offended,  when  he  hears  the  sonnet  which 
Oronte  intends  for  Celimene,  when  he  is  going  to 
lose  his  lawsuit,  when  rivals  make  love  to  his  sweet- 
heart in  his  own  presence.  Misanthropy  is  merely 
a  form  of  selfishness,  such  is  the  profound  and  funny 
moral  of  the  play.  But  modern  actors  distort  the 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

character  by  making  him  forty  or  fifty  years  old. 
Instead  of  a  grumbly  young  spark,  who  is  comic, 
they  give  us  an  old  bear  with  a  sore  head,  who  does 
not  make  us  laugh  at  all.  Thus,  an  error  of  detail 
renders  the  whole  masterpiece  unintelligible,  and 
gives  Moliere  an  air  of  Heraclitus. 

It  is  also  customary  to  paint  the  cuckoldry  of 
Moliere  in  the  darkest  colours,  which  are  reflected 
in  his  works.  He  is  the  tragic  cuckold.  Yet,  why 
should  his  cuckoldry  be  sad,  when  all  the  matri- 
monial misadventures  which  he  has  put  on  the  stage 
arouse  laughter? 

At  times,  it  is  true,  he  has  expressed  sensual  de- 
sire with  an  intensity  which  is  almost  painful.  Do 
you  remember  Tar  tuff  e's  declaration  of  love? 
What  a  mysterious  tremor! 

Et  je  n'ai  pu  vous  voir,  parfaite  creature, 
Sans  admirer  en  vous  1'auteur  de  la  Nature. 

It  is  already  Baudelairian.  But  Baudelaire  is  tor- 
tured, whereas  Moliere  mocks  the  torture  of  Tar- 
tufe. 

After  this  little  walk  round  the  garden  of 
Moliere  we  returned  to  the  mummers. 

FRANCE. — They  sacrifice  everything  to  their 
mania  for  appearances,  and  their  art,  more  often 
than  not,  is  mere  bluff. 

MME.  M. — Hm!  Hm! 


M.  Bergeret 

FRANCE. — /  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  lady. 
There  is  no  question  about  you,  who  are  a  peerless 
luminary. 

.  .  .  Provided  an  actor  tops  the  bill  and  gets  all  the 
limelight  on  the  stage,  he  cares  nothing  for  the 
play.  And  probably  he  is  right,  for  it  is  he  whom 
the  public  come  to  applaud,  not  the  author.  And 
what  self-complacency!  Sardou  used  to  play  upon 
just  that  weakness  of  his  interpreters,  the  clever 
rascal!  I  saw  him  at  work  during  rehearsals.  In 
order  to  mortify  the  stars,  and  keep  them  within 
bounds,  he  used  to  pretend  sometimes  that  he  could 
not  recall  their  names.  He  would  say  to  the  most 
famous  actor: 

"You,  Thingabob,  what's  this  your  name  is?  .  .  . 
Anyhow,  you  who  are  playing  the  part  of  Napoleon 
.  .  .  you  are  execrable!" 

Then,  to  a  wretched  twenty-fifth  rate  barnstormer ', 
who  had  a  walking-on  part: 

"Good!  Fery  good,  M.  Evariste  Dupont!  I 
am  delighted!" 

This  apparent  praise  for  a  nobody  touched  the 
lords  of  the  theatre  to  the  quick,  and  made  them 
as  pliable  as  wax. 

We  spoke  of  the  liberties  that  stars  take  with 
their  text. 

FRANCE. — Once  again,  what  does  it  matter,  since 
nobody  can  hear  them.  It  is  sufficient  for  them  to 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

appear  to  be  saying  something.  Did  not  some  one 
assure  me  that  an  illustrious  tragedienne  sometimes 
used  to  interlard  her  part  with  remarks  to  the  scene- 
shifters.  With  her  golden  voice  she  intones: 

Dieux,  que  ne  suis-je  assise  a  Fombre  des  forets! 
Then,  suddenly,  in  the  same  tone  of  purest  gold: 

Trois  lampes  sont  eteintes  a  la  deuxieme  frise. 
L'electricien  sera  mis  a  1'amende. 

Afer  that,  without  any  interruption: 

Quand  pourrai-je,  au  travers  d'une  noble  poussiere, 
Suivre  d'un  ceil  un  char  fuyant  dans  la  carriere! 

The  public  does  not  notice  anything  and  the  elec- 
trician relights  his  bulbs. 

The  anecdote  made  us  snigger. 

FRANCE. — One  day,  I  am  told,  the  supers  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  their  superior,  and  began  also 
to  talk  while  on  the  stage.  It  was  at  a  performance 
of  "L'Aiglon." 

At  a  dazzling  ball  given  in  the  Imperial  Palace 
at  Vienna  marquises,  archdukes  and  princes  had  been 
played  by  hawkers  from  the  Holies,  bedizened  with 
trappings  and  trimmings,  trinkets  and  gold  braid. 
Unfortunately,  as  they  were  somewhat  deficient  in 
the  usages  of  court  life,  the  illusion  had  not  been 
complete.  Consequently,  during  the  interval,  the 
queen  of  tragedy  did  not  fail  to  admonish  them 
roundly: 

1:164:1 


M.  Bergeret 

"You  marched  like  a  flock  of  sheep,"  she  shouted, 
"like  sheep,  like  sheep!" 

The  next  scene  is  the  battle  field  of  Wagram.  Our 
friends  the  hawkers,  who  had  divested  themselves 
of  their  fine  gala  dress,  were  now  representing  the 
dead  and  dying  with  which  the  plain  was  strewn. 
They  had  been  told  to  utter  groans  whose  lugubrious 
chant  was  to  rise  to  heaven.  Scarcely  had  the  cur- 
tain risen  than  they  began  to  modulate  their  moans. 
At  first  it  was  a  confused  murmur,  but  soon  definite 
sounds  emerged: .  .  .  "arch,"  "  .  .  ik.  ..""...  .ock," 
".  .  .  eep".  .  .  .  Then  the  dying  finally  droned 
lamentably  a  phrase  which  they  pronounced  and  re- 
peated in  perfect  unison! 

"We  .  .  .  marched  .  .  .  like  .  .  .  a  flock  .  .  . 
of  sheep  .  .  .  a  flock  .  .  .  of  sheep." 

The  tragedienne  who  was  listening  in  the  wings 
was  afraid  that  a  phrase  so  clearly  enunciated  would 
cross  the  footlights: 

"Curtain!    Curtain!"    she  ordered  peremptorily. 

Thereupon,  we  spoke  of  the  genius  of  Mme.  Sarah 
Bernhardt. 

FRANCE. — She  was  often  sublime.  Without  be- 
traying Racine,  she  was  an  entirely  different  Phedre. 
Every  generation  admires  beauties  hitherto  unknown 
in  the  works  of  great  authors.  Sarah  was  our 
Phedre. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Do  you  know  that  I  formerly  collaborated  with 
her? 

Yes,  indeed.  That  is  a  long  time  ago.  She  in- 
vited me  to  come  and  see  her  and  talk  about  a 
scenario  she  had  planned.  In  the  studio  where  she 
received  me  Maurice  Bernhardt,  still  a  child,  was 
playing  with  a  huge  Dane.  The  divine  tragedienne 
was  talking.  Maurice,  seeing  the  eye  of  the  dog 
glitter,  put  out  his  little  hand  to  grasp  this  shining 
object.  Naturally,  the  good  dog,  found  this  game 
lacking  in  charm.  It  turned  away,  and  uninten- 
tionally it  sent  Maurice  rolling  on  the  carpet  with 
a  slight  movement  of  its  back.  Maurice  yelled. 
His  mother  interrupted  her  conversation  to  lift 
him  up  and  console  him.  After  that,  to  make 
sure  of  being  understood,  she  began  her  narrative 
again. 

Once  more  Maurice  tried  to  seize  the  dog's  eye- 
ball. Once  more  the  Dane  knocked  Maurice  down. 
Again  Mme.  Sarah  Bernhardt  wiped  away  the  tears 
of  her  offspring  and  resumed  her  story.  Maurice 
fell  four  times,  and  four  times  his  mother  related 
the  beginning  of  the  scenario.  A  few  days  later  she 
was  to  sail  for  America. 

"Good-bye  to  our  lovely  collaboration,"  I  said 
to  her. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  replied,  "we  shall  continue  our 
play  by  correspondence." 

CI66] 


M.  Bergeret 

"By  letter?"  I  inquired. 

"By  telegram.'' 

"But  you  are  crossing  the  Ocean." 

"The  telegrams  will  be  cablegrams,  that's  all!" 

"But"  I  said  again,  "you  will  be  travelling  in 
America.  I  have  been  told  that  it  is  your  intention 
to  go  right  out  to  the  Far  West." 

"You  have  been  correctly  informed.  That  will 
not  prevent  us  from  going  on  with  our  collaboration. 
Across  the  silent  plains  of  the  Far  West  I  will  des- 
patch Redskins  who,  mounting  barebacked  and  un- 
tamed horses,  will  gallop  to  the  nearest  town  with 
the  text  of  my  cablegrams." 

"But .  .  ."     I  ventured. 

"You  are  making  mountains  out  of  molehills,"  she 
cried,  laughingly. 

I  said  good-bye  to  her. 

In  spite  of  her  desire  and  mine,  our  correspond- 
ence was  not  established  so  easily  as  she  had  said 
Our  collaboration  ceased.  I  was  very  sorry  about 
it.  I  suspect  those  damned  Redskins  of  having  lost 
the  missives  of  Mme.  Sarah  Bernhardt. 

"Master,  you  are  charming,"  said  Mme.  M.,  "but 
your  irony  will  certainly  disgust  with  the  theatre 
this  young  man  who  has  confided  to  you  his  hopes." 

FRANCE. — That  is  not  my  intention.  In  fact,  to 
prove  my  sympathy,  I  am  going  to  give  him  a  piece 
of  valuable  advice. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Young  man,  if  you  want  to  be  performed,  get  a 
very  bad  actress  for  your  principal  part. 

THE  YOUNG  AUTHOR. — Oh,  upon  my  word ! .  .  . 

FRANCE. — Yes,  indeed.  The  great  difficulty  for 
an  author  is  to  find  a  very  bad  actress  of  renown. 
Understand  this:  To  make  up  for  lack  of  talent  she 
must  be  very  beautiful.  If  she  is  very  beautiful, 
heaven  will  send  her  magnificent  protectors.  If  she 
has  magnificent  protectors,  she  can  perform  in  every 
play  that  strikes  her  fancy.  So,  find  a  very  bad 
actress. 

As  he  said  this,  M.  Bergeret  toyed  with  a  book 
which  he  had  just  received.  It  was  La  Pisanella, 
by  Gabriele  d'Annunzio.  The  dedication  caught  his 
eye  and  he  read  it  aloud: 

"To  Anatole  France,  on  whom  all  the  faces  of  Truth  and 
Error  smile  equally. 

"GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO." 

That  is  a  scratch  of  his  paw,  but  very  neatly  done, 
I  must  say! 

As  he  has  scratched  me,  here,  by  way  of  revenge, 
is  a  story  I  heard  yesterday. 

At  the  time  when  "La  Pisanella''  was  being  re- 
hearsed at  the  Chdtelet  a  reporter  came  to  interview 
the  author,  who  cheerfully  submitted  to  his  ques- 
tions. 

By  chance  the  journalist  noticed  an  old  cameo  ring 
on  the  poet's  finger. 

Ci683 


M.  Bergeret 

'What  a  wonderful  stone!"     he  cried. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  inquired  Gabriele  d'Annunzio. 
"It  is  yours" 

Drawing  the  ring  from  his  finger  immediately,  he 
slipped  it  onto  that  of  the  caller,  who  tried  in  vain 
to  refuse  so  generous  a  present. 

Our  reporter  counted  on  keeping  this  rare  piece 
of  jewellery  as  a  souvenir  of  tine  great  writer.  But 
he  was  dying  to  know  its  value.  He  entered  the 
first  best  lapidary's  and  showed  him  the  carved  stone. 
The  jeweller  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  use  his 
magnifying  glass'. 

"That,"  he  said  disdainfully,  "is  a  piece  of  glass. 
It  is  worth  about  four  cents" 

Whence  I  conclude  that  Gabriele  d'Annunzio  is 
an  excellent  dramatist. 

MME.  M. — "Very  well,  Master.  The  theatre 
is  the  land  of  deceptive  and  often  clumsy  ap- 
pearances. Everything  in  it  is  a  delusion  to  re- 
fined minds.  But  is  life  so  different  from  the 
theatre? 

"My  profession  brings  me  into  contact  with  all  the 
bigwigs  of  the  world.  I  must  tell  you  of  my  inter- 
views with  them. 

"In  Berlin,  after  an  evening  when  I  had  played 
before  the  Kaiser,  I  was  presented  to  him.  You 
know  that  he  is  an  expert  in  strategy,  painting,  poli- 
tics, architecture,  diplomacy,  music,  theology,  danc- 

£169:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

ing,  dressmaking  and  cookery.  He  is  also  an  expert 
in  French  literature. 

"  'Ach!'  said  he,  'I  love  France  very  much.'  (He 
loves  it,  no  doubt,  the  way  the  wolf  loves  the  lamb.) 
'Ach !  I  adore  your  literature  above  everything.  I 
adore  it!  At  the  present  time  you  are  the  happy 
possessors  of  a  great  genius.  I  read  his  works  a 
great  deal.  I  adore  them!  I  adore  them!  We 
have  nothing  like  them  in  Germany.' 

"  'To  whom  does  Your  Majesty  refer?' 

"  'To  Georges  Ohnet.  Ach !  Georges  Ohnet ! 
Nothing  so  collossal  as  the  Maitre  de  Forges  has 
ever  been  written.' 

"You  can  see  that  the  Kaiser  is  an  expert  in  French 
literature.  In  brief,  this  monarch  who  makes  the 
world  tremble  by  twirling  his  moustache,  is  nothing 
but  a  perfect  imbecile." 

Mme.  M.  continued: 

"At  the  Imperial  Theatre  at  Petersburgh,  I  was 
taken  to  the  Tsar's  box.  It  appeared,  he  wanted  to 
congratulate  me. 

"Just  when  I  was  brought  into  his  presence,  it  so 
happened,  why  I  kndw  not,  that  he  was  seized  with  a 
fit  of  indigestion.  A  metal  basin  was  being  held  in 
front  of  him.  However,  he  received  me,  turned  his 
pale  eyes  towards  me,  and  Nature,  which  is  no  more 
merciful  to  potentates  than  to  beggars,  caused  this 
wretched  puppet  to  go  through  a  most  unappetising 

[1703 


M.  Bergeret 

pantomime.     I  left  without  hearing  his  compliments, 
I  assure  you. 

"That  is  how,  at  the  height  of  their  splendour,  the 
most  powerful  sovereigns  in  the  world  appeared  to 
me.1  Distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view: 

De  loin,  c'est  quelque  chose  et  de  pres  ce  n'est  rien. 

"Now,  after  that,  do  not  tell  me  that  the  theatre 
is  more  deceptive  than  real  life." 

M.  Bergeret  smiled  and  raised  the  hand  of  Mme. 
M.  to  his  lips. 

I  am  much  obliged  for  the  lesson,  my  dear  lady. 
I  was  wrong  to  abuse  the  theatre.  It  is  much  less 
mendacious  than  I  pretend,  and  it  certainly  resembles 
life,  since  life  is  so  like  a  stage. 

1  At  the  time  when  Mme.  M.  spoke  of  these  t<wo  crowned  pup- 
pets, she  took  them  for  characters  in  a  comedy.  She  little  knew 
that  they  would  soon  act  in  drama.  But,  whether  comedy  or 
drama,  is  it  not  always  the  stage? 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's: 
Or  Lunch  at  Meudon 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's:  Or 
Lunch  at  Meudon 

Anatole  France  went  one  day  to  call  on  Auguste 
Rodin  at  Meudon.  Mme.  de  N.  took  him  there. 
She  is  a  Polish  noblewoman,  of  uncertain  age, 
small,  smiling,  and  plump,  and  lisps  volubly  a 
French  that  is  strongly  flavoured  with  a  foreign 
accent.  She  adores  men  of  genius.  She  loves 
them  platonically,  but  passionately.  She  becomes 
their  slave.  She  had  given  her  soul  both  to  Rodin 
and  M.  Bergeret. 

She  came  to  all  the  gatherings  at  the  Villa  Said. 
She  used  to  bring  roses  to  our  host  and, 
courtesying,  almost  kneeling,  before  him,  she 
would  plant  greedy  little  kisses  on  his  aristocratic 
hands.  She  did  the  same  for  Rodin,  when  she  went 
to  see  him  in  the  Rue  de  1'Univcrsite,  the  Rue  de 
Varenne,  or  at  Meudon. 

This  idolization  of  great  men  is  commoner  than 
people  imagine,  and  they  have  often  great  difficulty 
in  escaping  from  it.  They  are  besieged  with  love- 
letters.  Some  women  openly  make  advances  to 
fame,  just  as  men  pay  homage  to  beauty. 

1:175:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

France  came  to  the  rustic  studio  of  the  celebrated 
sculptor,  accompanied  by  Mme.  de.  N. 

When  M.  Bergeret  goes  out  he  wears  a  grey 
felt  hat,  rather  low  in  the  crown,  which  looks  like 
a  cake,  because  of  its  broad  brim.  His  overcoat 
hangs  rather  loosely  on  his  thin  body.  Tall,  simple, 
and  with  a  slight  stoop,  he  looks  like  a  respectable 
taxpayer  on  his  way  to  his  house  in  the  country. 
He  never  wears  his  decoration.  As  is  probably 
well  known,  he  is  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour.  It  is  a  trifle  for  his  reputation,  but  he 
himself  has  been  at  pains  to  say,  on  many  occasions, 
that  he  cares  nothing  for  official  /honours.  He 
ceased  to  wear  the  rosette  at  the  time  of  the 
Dreyfus  Affair,  by  way  of  protest  when  Emile 
Zola  was  divested  of  the  Order. 

Occasionally,  amongst  friends,  he  will  give  a 
dissertation  upon  the  taste  of  his  compatriots  for 
badges  of  honour. 

Whence  this  mania?  he  asks.  Oh,  yes.  I  know. 
A  man  with  a  decoration  can  wear  a  soft  hat  with- 
out incurring  the  humiliating  contempt  of  the 
concierges.  That,  at  least,  is  something.  He  need 
no  longer  be  so  punctilious  about  his  appearance, 
and  the  stains  on  his  waistcoat  are  overlooked.  In 
short,  the  piece  of  ribbon  is  a  substitute  for  benzine. 
This  emblem  may  also  be  useful  in  case  of  a  flagrant 
outrage  on  public  morals.  How  could  a  police  spy 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

seize  in  his  clutches  a  gentleman  whose  buttonhole 
is  adorned  with  red?  But,  of  course,  this  suppo- 
sition is  entirely  gratuitous,  for  a  man  with  a 
decoration  is  always  a  man  of  honour. 

I  cannot  see  why  French  people  covet  the  cross 
so  obstinately.  Are  they  more  vain  than  other 
mortals?  No.  I  do  not  think  so.  Man  is  the 
same  everywhere,  only  the  manifestations  of  his 
vanity  differ  from  nation  to  nation.  The  pride  of 
the  Italians  seizes  upon  impressive  titles:  Cavalier e, 
Commendatore.  That  of  Germans  upon  parch- 
ments: Herr  Doktor,  Herr  Professor.  That  of 
the  Yankees  upon  the  amount  of  one's  fortune:  So- 
and-So  is  worth  so  much,  and  So-and-So  is  worth 
twice  that.  In  short,  our  appetite  for  ribbons, 
braids,  medals  and  stars  is  perhaps  the  most  harm- 
less and  unobjectionable  of  all. 

Rodin  was  doubtless  greatly  flattered  by  the 
visit  of  M.  Bergeret.  Yet,  these  two  prophets  did 
not  profess  unreserved  admiration  for  one  another. 
In  private  conversation  Anatole  France  is  in  the 
habit  of  commenting  freely  upon  the  inspiration  of 
the  celebrated  artist. 

He  is  a  genius.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  have  seen 
some  nudes  of  his,  palpitating  with  life.  But  he  is 
not  one  of  those  great  decorators  such  as  France 
has  known,  especially  in  the  seventeenth  and  eigh* 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

teenth  centuries.  He  seems  to  me  to  know  nothing 
of  the  science  of  grouping.  Above  all,  it  must  be 
said,  he  collaborates  too  much  with  accidents. 

M.  Bergeret  explains  what  he  means  by  these 
rather  cryptic  words: 

He  abuses  his  right  to  destroy  what  is  not  per- 
fect in  a  work.  Dear  old  President  Fallieres,  who 
was  one  day  paying  an  official  visit  to  the  Salon, 
stopped  in  front  of  a  statue  which  had  neither  head, 
nor  arms,  nor  legs,  and  said,  with  great  simplicity: 

"M.  Rodin  is  certainly  a  great  man,  but  his 
furniture  removers  are  singularly  careless." 

Then  M.  Bergeret  began  to  draw  upon  his  store 
of  anecdotes: 

Do  you  know  how  he  conceived  that  Victor 
Hugo,  the  half-reclining  figure  in  marble  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Palais-Royal?  This  is  the  story: 

Rodin  had  just  finished  in  clay  an  imposing 
statue  of  the  poet.  Victor  Hugo  was  standing  up- 
right on  the  crest  of  a  rock.  All  sorts  of  Muses 
and  Ocean  deities  were  circling  about  him.  One 
morning  the  sculptor  brought  a  whole  troup  of 
journalists  to  his  studio,  that  they  might  contem- 
plate the  new  work.  Unfortunately,  the  evening  be- 
fore, he  had  left  the  window  open,  and,  as  a 
terrible  storm  had  broken  out  during  the  night,  a 
stream  of  water  had  reduced  the  huge  group  to 
formless  pulp.  The  cliff  had  collapsed  upon  the 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

dancing  deities.  As  for  Victor  Hugo,  he  had 
flopped  down  into  a  sea  of  mud. 

Rodin  opened  the  door,  and  allowed  his  guests 
to  go  in  first.  Suddenly  he  beheld  the  disaster. 
He  all  but  tore  his  beard  with  despair.  But  the 
chorus  of  praise  had  already  begun: 

"Wonderful!  —  Marvellous!  —  Formidable!  — 
Victor  Hugo  rising  from  this  bed  of  slime,  what  a 
symbol! — Master,  it  is  a  stroke  of  genius! — 
You  have  tried  to  represent  the  ignominy  of  an 
epoch  in  which  the  inspiration  of  the  bard  alone 
survived,  noble  and  pure.  How  beautiful!" 

"Do  you  think  so?"     Rodin  asked  timidly. 

"Of  course!  It  is  the  masterpiece  of  master- 
pieces. Oh!  Please,  Master,  leave  it  as  it  is!" 

The  story  is  certainly  piquant.  .  .  .  Si  non  e 
vero.  .  .  . 

In  his  drawings,  continued  M.  Bergeret,  Rodin 
represents  little  more  than  women  showing  their 
.  .  .  And  his  monotonous  audacity  is  just  a  little 
tiring. 

The  other  day  I  met  him  at  the  house  of  a  friend, 
and  he  confided  to  me  with  delight  that  he  was 
doing  a  series  of  water-colours  with  a  darling  little 
model. 

"This  young  woman,"  he  said  to  me,  "is  abso- 
lutely Psyche.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  you  who  are  a 
scholar f  could  you  tell  me  who  Psyche  was?" 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

As  I  always  try  to  make  people  happy,  I  tried  to 
give  him  the  answer  he  expected. 

"Psyche''  said  I,  "was  an  obliging  young  woman, 
who  was  always  ready  to  show  her.  .  .  ." 

"My  word!"  cried  Rodin,  "that  is  exactly  the 
way  she  appears  to  me.  You  have  made  me  very 
happy." 

But  I  cannot  reproach  him  with  his  eroticism, 
added  M.  Bergeret,  for  I  know  very  well  that  sen- 
suality makes  up  three-quarters  of  the  genius  of 
great  artists. 

I  do  not  pardon  him  so  easily  for  his  too  casual 
habit  of  appropriating  the  work  of  others.  I  was 
told  lately  that  a  photographer  went  to  Meudon  to 
take  photographs  of  the  Master's  sculpture.  As 
Rodin  was  away,  he  was  received  by  a  figure-carver. 
He  noticed  a  huge  block  of  marble  still  in  the  rough, 
in  which  only  a  knee  was  visible,  finely  carved. 
He  became  most  enthusiastic: 

"Admirable!"     He   cried.     "Do   tell  me   the 
name  of  this  masterpiece." 

"It  is  'La  Pensee,'  "  replied  the  carver. 

The  delighted  photographer  was  already  focus- 
sing his  camera,  when  he  was  told:  "It  is  not  by 
Rodin,  but  by  his  collaborator,  Despiau." 

The  photographer  turned  to  another  massive 
block,  from  which  a  nude  back  emerged. 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

"Splendid,"  said  he.  "What  is  the  name  of 
that?" 

"Also  'La  Pensee,'  but  that  is  not  by  Rodin 
either.  It  is  by  Desbois,  his  collaborator.9' 

The  disappointed  photographer  perceived  a  third 
block,  in  which  a  foot  stood  out. 

"Marvellous!"  he  declared.  'What  does  that 
represent?" 

"Still  'La  Pensee'  Besides,  that  is  rather 
evident!  But  it  is  not  by  Rodin.  It  is  by  Bour- 
delle,  his  collaborator" 

At  this,  the  photographer  became  desperate, 
hoisted  his  camera  on  his  back  again,  and  made  of 
as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 

Rodin,  in  his  turn,  sometimes  spoke  of  M.  Ber- 
geret  in  rather  harsh  terms.  Of  course,  he  praised 
highly  the  wit  of  Anatole  France  and  the  charm 
of  his  style,  but  he  had  scanty  esteem  for  the  vary- 
ing shades  of  his  thought,  which  he  considered 
specious  and  instable. 

He  has  the  gravy,  he  declared  bluntly,  but  not  the 
rabbit. 

It  should  be  explained  that  rabbit  was  his  favour- 
ite dish.  It  was  a  remembrance  of  the  time  when 
he  was  a  figure-carver  and  ate  his  meals  in  cheap 
restaurants.  Rabbit  seemed  to  him  a  food  of  the 
gods.  Obviously,  Anatole  France  lacked  some- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

thing  essential  when  he  had  no  rabbit.  Conse- 
quently, he  would  never  model  the  bust  of  M.  Ber- 
geret.  He  had  been  commissioned  to  do  so  by  dear 
old  Dujardin-Beaumetz,  the  Uhder-Secretary  at  the 
Ministry  of  Fine  Arts,  but  he  never  began.  Per- 
haps the  extraordinary  mobility  of  such  a  face  dis- 
couraged him. 

Rodin  invited  M.  Bergeret  to  admire  the  work 
which  he  had  on  the  stocks,  and  his  collection  of 
antiques.  Then  they  went  into  the  dining-room. 

Rose,  the  sculptor's  old  companion,  wanted  to  slip 
away.  She  did  not  feel  at  home  in  the  presence  of 
the  illustrious  visitor.  Rodin  caught  her  by  the 
arm. 

Rose,  sit  do^vn  there!  he  said  to  her  imperiously. 

"But,  Monsieur  Rodin.  .  .  ." 

I  tell  you  to  sit  down  there! 

Rose  used  to  call  her  companion  "Monsieur 
Rodin"  to  show  her  respect  for  him. 

She  grumbled  again: 

"What  funny  creatures  men  are!  They  think 
you  can  be  in  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room  at 
the  same  time!" 

But  she  sat  down  with  us  to  eat  her  soup.  Dur- 
ing the  meal  she  got  up  several  times,  cleared  away 
the  dishes,  and  trotted  off  into  the  kitchen  to  bring 
in  the  courses.  Then  she  would  sit  down  quickly. 

Cite] 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

Rodin  would  not  have  any  other  servant  near  him. 

Rose  was  a  most  gentle  creature.  The  life  of 
this  woman,  timid,  discreet,  obscured,  terrified, 
in  the  shadow  of  that  despotic  colossus,  haloed 
with  glory,  would  make  a  story  for  Balzac.  Once 
upon  a  time  she  was  a  fascinating  beauty.  Some- 
times Rodin  would  point  out  in  his  studio  an  admir- 
able bust  of  Bellona,  with  frowning  glance.  Then, 
addressing  Rose : 

//  was  you,  he  would  say,  who  posed  for  that 
Bellona.  Do  you  remember? 

In  a  tremulous  voice  she  would  reply : 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Rodin." 

The  contrast  was  striking  between  this  nice  little 
old  woman  and  the  terrible  helmeted  goddess  who 
had  formerly  been  modelled  in  her  likeness.  She 
idolized  her  great  man.  She  had  shared  with 
him  the  harsh  experience  of  an  existence  full  of 
ups  and  downs.  He  often  tortured  her,  for  he 
was  the  most  fantastic  and  changeable  of  men.  She 
used  to  see  lovely  women  coming  into  her  house, 
who  were  her  victorious  rivals,  and  she  had  to  bear 
their  presence  without  a  word  of  complaint. 

The  slightest  attention  from  him  filled  her  with 
joy.  In  her  garden  at  Meudon  she  passionately 
cultivated  flowers.  One  day  I  saw  him  pluck  one 
and  offer  it  to  her: 

Here,  Rose,  this  is  for  you. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

"Oh!  Thank  you,  Monsieur  Rodin,"  she  said, 
swelling  with  celestial  happiness. 

Let  me  complete  this  sketch  of  a  touching  picture 
with  a  few  more  strokes,  and  recall  the  last  hours 
of  this  humble  existence. 

When  Rose's  health  declined,  Rodin  married  her. 
And  it  was  as  if  the  gates  of  heaven  had  opened  to 
receive  her.  But  her  illness  was  consuming  her. 
She  was  installed  in  a  wickerwork  armchair  on  the 
steps,  so  that  the  rays  of  the  sun  might  warm  her. 
Her  eyes  were  too  bright  in  their  hollow  sockets  and 
her  cheekbones  a  feverish  red.  She  had  a  ceaseless 
dry  cough. 

All  of  a  sudden  Rodin  realized  what  he  was  about 
to  lose.  He  was  well  on  in  years  himself.  He 
sat  beside  her  in  a  similar  chair,  and  looked  at  her 
in  silence.  He  put  his  great  hairy  paw  on  the  thin, 
bloodless  hand  of  the  poor  woman,  as  if  to  keep  her 
by  main  force. 

She  breathed  her  last,  and  very  shortly  after,  the 
giant  followed  her  to  the  grave. 

The  dining-room  in  which  we  sat  was  as  spring- 
like as  an  idyll.  The  windows  looked  out  onto  the 
bluish  slopes  of  Meudon,  and  upon  the  valley  of 
the  Seine,  winding  lazily  beneath  a  silver  sky. 

Rose  served  up  a  huge  dish  of  rabbit,  and  Rodin 
himself  fished  out  rashers  and  placed  them  politely 

£184:1 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

on  the  plate  of  Anatole  France,  whom  he  wished  to 
honour. 

At  a  certain  moment,  when  the  sculptor  made 
a  movement  to  pour  some  water  into  his  wine,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  towards  a  square  decanter 
whose  glass  stopper  was  curiously  ornamented  with 
coloured  spirals,  like  those  glass  marbles  in  which 
urchins  delight.  Suddenly  he  said: 

Rose,  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  did  not 
want  to  see  on  my  table.  .  .  . 

Precipitately  Rose  seized  the  abhorrent  object  and 
fled  with  it.  She  returned  a  moment  later  with 
another  decanter  and  said  to  us: 

"M.  Rodin  would  have  thrown  on  the  ground  the 
one  which  annoys  him  so  much!" 

We  are  invaded  by  ugliness,  growled  the  sculptor. 
AH  the  things  we  use  every  day  are  an  offence  to 
good  taste.  Our  glasses,  our  dishes,  our  chairs,  are 
horrible.  They  are  machine-made,  and  machines 
kill  the  mind.  Formerly  the  slightest  domestic 
utensils  were  beautiful,  because  they  reflected  the 
intention  of  the  artisan  who  made  them.  The 
human  soul  ornamented  them  with  its  dreams. 

I  read  in  Andersen,  the  adorable  Danish  writer, 
that,  when  night  comes,  the  furniture  and  other 
domestic  objects  begin  to  talk  amonst  themselves. 
The  chandeliers  chat  tyuith  the  clock,  the  fire-dogs 
gossip  with  the  tongs.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  all  the 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

relics  of  the  past  speak  in  this  fashion,  even  during 
the  daytime.  They  whisper  to  us  a  hundred  touch- 
ing confidences  about  the  good  people  who  made 
them.  But  our  furniture  of  today  is  silent. 
What  could  it  have  to  say?  The  wood  of  an  arm- 
chair would  repeal  to  us  that  it  was  sold  in  large 
quantities  from  a  mechanical  sawmill  in  the  North- 
ern provinces;  the  leather,  that  it  comes  from  a  great 
leather-dressing  factory  in  the  South;  the  copper, 
that  it  was  cast  by  thousands  in  some  factory  in 
the  East  or  West.  And  if  they  all  began  to  talk 
together,  what  a  dreadful  cacophony.  It  is  sad,  you 
Jknow,  to  live  at  a  time  when  the  little  familiar  house- 
hold deities  maintain  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

M.  Bergeret  admitted  that  our  decorative  arts 
had  fallen  very  low. 

RODIN. — //  it  were  only  our  decorative  arts!  But 
it  is  art,  art  pure  and  simple,  which  has  dwindled 
to  nothing.  No  distinction  can  be  made  between 
decorative  art  and  art.  To  make  a  very  beautiful 
table  or  model  the  torso  of  a  woman,  is  all  one. 
Art  always  consists  in  translating  dreams  into  forms. 
We  no  longer  dream!  People  have  forgotten  that 
every  line,  if  it  is  to  be  harmonious,  must  express  hu- 
man joy  and  sorrow.  And  in  what  is  called  great 
art,  in  sculpture,  for  example,  as  well  as  in  the  mak- 
ing of  ordinary  things,  machinery  has  put  dream  to 
flight. 

Ci86] 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

This  prophetic  outburst  disconcerted  M.  Ber- 
geret  a  little,  for  it  is  not  his  wont  to  take  such 
dizzy  flights.  He  brought  the  conversation  down 
to  a  more  modest  level. 

How  can  machinery  influence  sculpture?  he  asked. 

How?  replied  Rodin  still  grumbling.  Why,  be- 
cause casting  is  a  substitute  for  talent* 

FRANCE. — Casting? 

RODIN. — Yes;  nowadays  this  mechanical  process 
is  commonly  employed  by  our  sculptors.  They  are 
satisfied  to  make  casts  of  living  models.  The  pub- 
lic does  not  know  this  yet,  but  in  the  profession  it 
is  an  open  secret.  Modern  statues  are  nothing 
more  than  casts  placed  on  pedestals.  The  sculptor 
has  nothing  more  to  do.  It  is  the  maker  of  plaster- 
casts  who  does  all  the  work. 

FRANCE. — Allow  me  to  ask  a  question.  I  quite 
understand  what  you  say  when  the  figures  of  a  mon- 
ument are  exactly  life  size.  But  what  do  our  art- 
ists do  when  they  execute  figures  larger  or  smaller 
than  the  actual  dimensions? 

RODIN. — There  is  no  difficulty  whatever  about 

1  When  Auguste  Rodin  began  he  was  accused  by  the  academic 
sculptors  of  having  recourse  to  the  process  which  he  disapproves 
of  so  violently.  The  State,  which  wanted  to  purchase  his  "Age 
of  Bronze,"  went  so  far  as  to  appoint  a  commission  to  ascertain 
that  this  work  was  not  simply  cast  from  living  models.  It  is 
striking  to  hear  the  man  of  genius,  who  always  spiritualised 
nature,  turning  the  tables  on  his  opponents,  whose  uninspired 
technique  assuredly  deserves  his  sharp  censure. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

that,  for  they  have  instruments  for  enlarging  or  re- 
ducing the  casts. 

FRANCE. — And  in  ancient  times,  you  say,  the 
sculptors  refrained  from  making  casts  of  living 
models? 

RODIN. — They  used  casts  only  for  documentary 
purposes.  Formerly  in  the  studios  one  saw  arms, 
legs,  and  torsos,  in  casts,  whose  contour  was  per- 
fect. The  artists  studied  them  to  check  the  position 
of  the  muscles  in  their  works,  but  they  were  careful 
never  to  copy  them.  They  always  attempted  to  put 
life  into  the  models  to  which  they  referred,  to  trans- 
form them,  to  breathe  into  them  their  inspiration. 
It  'was  the  Italian,  Canova,  who  began,  at  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  to  incorporate  cast  pieces 
into  his  statues.  The  great  number  of  commissions 
which  he  received  forced  him  to  adopt  this  expedi- 
tious method.  Since  then,  his  example  has  been  uni- 
versally followed. 

Sculptors  have  ceased  to  give  their  work  the 
stamp  of  thought  which  transfigures  objects  and 
illuminates  them  with  an  interior  light.  They  have 
sought  only  vulgar  substitutes.  Not  content  with 
casting  nudes,  by  a  fatal  descent  they  have  repro- 
duced exactly  real  clothing.  In  women's  costumes 
they  have  imitated  ribbons,  laces,  trimmings;  in 
men's  clothes,  frock-coats,  trousers,  cuffs,  collars,  the 
whole  department  of  latest  fashions.  Thus  our 

Ci88] 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

streets  and  the  fronts  of  our  national  buildings  have 
become  branches  of  a  waxwork  museum. 

FRANCE. — //  is  only  too  true,  my  dear  Master, 
and  this  vulgar  realism  is  also  visible  in  modern 
sculpture  in  a  quantity  of  incidentals  of  ordinary 
life,  furniture  which  seems  to  have  come  from  the 
cabinet-maker's,  scientific  instruments,  objects  of  all 
kinds  which  are  a  dead  weight  upon  art,  for  their 
stiff  precision  defies  imaginative  interpretation.  A 
strange  collection  of  bric-a-brac  could  be  made  of  all 
the  incidental  features  that  disfigure  our  public  mon- 
uments. 

The  stove  of  Bernard  Palissy  would  jostle  the 
phial  of  Pelletier  and  Caventou,  the  scales  of  Lav- 
oisier, the  dissecting -table  and  dead  poodle  of 
Claude  Bernard,  Diderot's  armchair,  the  chair  of 
Camille  Desmoulins,  Renaudot's  press,  Doctor  Tar- 
nier's  hospital  bed,  the  revolving  stool  of  Gerome, 
etc.  .  .  .  But  besides  this  old  curiosity  shop,  an  ex- 
tensive annex  would  have  to  be  opened  to  house  the 
unusually  large  items  such  as  Chappe's  telegraph  and 
the  Balloon  of  the  Siege. 

RODIN. — The  artists  of  today  do  not  know  that 
the  function  of  art  is  to  express  the  human  soul, 
that  science  cannot  be  represented  by  machinery,  but 
by  a  thinking  forehead  and  brooding  eyes;  that 
courage  cannot  be  represented  by  cannons  and 
dirigibles,  but  by  virile  features  and  resolute  breasts. 

1:189] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Accessories    are    their    supreme    resource    because 
they  no  longer  know  how  to  rueal  the  mind. 

M.  Bergeret,  who  is  very  polite,  thought  it 
necessary  to  say  that  our  modern  sculpture,  never- 
theless, was  not  without  a  certain  distinction.  And, 
as  if  the  allusion  were  not  by  himself,  Rodin  gener- 
ously cited  Dalou,  praising  his  Republique  triom- 
phante,  drawn  by  lions  in  a  chariot  and  followed 
by  Justice  and  Plenty. 

FRANCE. — Certain  critics  have  disapproved  of  this 
mythology,  but  I  do  not  share  their  prejudices. 
Allegory,  which  is  greatly  abused,  seems  to  me  alone 
capable  of  expressing  general  ideas.  Do  you  not 
agree  with  me? 

RODIN. — Quite  right!  It  is  simply  a  question  of 
rejuvenating  old  images.  Thus,  Dalou' s  Marianne 
wearing  her  Phrygian  bonnet  reproduces  the  tradi- 
tional figure  of  Liberty,  but  her  gesture,  so  full  of 
friendliness,  her  face,  at  once  grave  and  modest,  are 
those  of  a  decent  working  woman  of  today. 

FRANCE. — It  is  the  same  in  literature.  Look  at 
the  allegory  of  Victory.  It  is  extremely  ancient 
and  seems  exhausted.  Yet,  read  the  Proclamation 
of  Napoleon  on  his  return  from  Elba  :  "Victory  will 
come  charging  onward."  Is  that  the  Nike  of  an- 
tiquity, I  ask  youf  No;  it  is  his  own  Victory  which 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

Napoleon  brings  thus  to  the  beating  of  drums. 
"Charging  onward!"  Victory  is  no  longer  winged. 
She  tramps  the  roads  and  fields  with  fury.  She  is 
dusty,  dishevelled,  plebeian.  .  .  . 

Thereupon  they  agreed  that,  like  every  literary 
or  artistic  resource,  allegory  is  effective  only  by  rea- 
son of  the  genius  which  employs  it.  The  name  of 
M.  Puech  happened  to  be  mentioned. 

FRANCE. — Oh!  That  man  terrifies  me.  It 
sometimes  happens  that  I  cannot  avoid  crossing 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  They  bristle  with  fun- 
ereal monuments  to  writers,  and  give  me  the 
unpleasant  impression  of  being  a  cemetery  of 
the  Muses.  But  I  particularly  pity  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  in  the  embraces  of  a  huge  winged  woman 
made  of  lard.  Whenever  I  see  him  I  fly,  thinking 
that  perhaps  one  day,  beneath  those  shady  trees, 
M.  Puech  will  represent  the  Dreyfus  Afair  in  suet, 
kissing  my  bust,  in  margarine,  on  the  mouth. 

Rodin  gave  the  laugh  of  a  great  good-humoured 
giant. 

The  two  great  men  naturally  drifted  into  a  con- 
versation about  the  changes  which  have  been  made  in 
Paris.  They  were  both  born  there,  and  M.  Ber- 
geret,  who  was  brought  up  in  a  bookshop  facing  the 
Louvre,  on  the  banks  of  the  lazy  Seine,  tenderly 

£191:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

cherishes  the  memory  of  the  landscape  of  friendly 
edifices  and  trembling  leaves,  which  enchanted  his 
gaze  as  a  child. 

They  will  end,  he  said,  by  making  our  Paris  ugly. 

RODIN. — As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  old  houses 
which  are  its  noblest  ornament  are  being  everywhere 
destroyed.  The  politicians,  engineers,  architects 
and  financiers  of  today  are  plotting  a  damnable 
conspiracy  against  the  grace  which  we  have  inherited 
from  the  past.  The  most  brilliant  remains  of  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  are  being  de- 
molished by  the  strokes  of  innumerable  pickaxes. 
Did  they  not  recently  ravage  the  delightful  Ile- 
Saint-Louis  where  dream,  hounded  everywhere, 
seemed  to  have  taken  refuge? 

Virgil  has  related  a  dramatic  legend.  In  order 
to  feed  the  flames  of  a  sacrificial  fire  &neas  breaks 
the  boughs  of  a  myrtle  tree.  Suddenly  the  broken 
branches  begin  to  bleed  and  a  groan  is  heard: 

¥'Stop,  wretch,  you  are  wounding  and  tearing 
me!" 

The  tree  was  a  man  metamorphosed  by  the  will  of 
the  gods. 

The  poet's  fable  often  comes  to  my  mind  when  I 
see  the  vandals  laying  the  ax  to  the  proud  dwell- 
ings of  long  ago.  Then  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
walls  are  bleeding,  for  they  are  alive  and  human  like 
the  myrtle  tree  of  Virgil.  In  the  harmonious 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

rhythm  of  their  buildings  do  we  not  hear  the  voices 
of  the  Frenchmen  of  old?  To  break  a  sixteenth 
century  stone  mask,  a  seventeenth  century  portico, 
a  delicate  eighteenth  century  frieze,  is  to  scar  crim- 
inally the  faces  of  our  ancestors,  to  strike  them  on 
their  eloquent  lips.  What  a  crime  to  stifle  their 
voices!  If  the  buildings  were  even  beautiful  which 
are  erected  in  the  place  of  those  demolished!  But 
most  of  them  are  hideous. 

FRANCE. — They  are  all  too  tall.  The  modest 
height  of  the  houses  was  the  chief  charm  of  old 
Paris.  They  did  not  hide  from  view  the  soft  sky 
of  the  Ile-de-France.  As  ground  was  cheap,  they 
developed  laterally.  That  was  the  secret  of  their 
charm.  Ground  has  become  very  expensive,  and 
the  houses  of  today  grow  higher  simply  because 
they  cannot  spread  out.  That  is  the  reason  of 
their  ugliness. 

RODIN. — They  present  neither  proportion,  nor 
style,  nor  pleasant  details.  People  have  forgotten 
that  architecture,  like  painting,  sculpture,  poetry  and 
music,  is  an  expression  of  the  soul.  Taste  is  dying, 
and  taste  is  the  mind  of  a  people  expressed  in  its 
everyday  life;  its  character  made  visible  in  its  cos- 
tumes, its  homes,  its  gardens,  its  public  places.  Our 
society  hates  the  mind.  It  kills  dream. 

He  continued: 

Are  they  not  now  talking  of  substituting  an  enor- 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

mous  iron  bridge  for  the  light  Pont  des  Arts,  in 
front  of  the  Louvre?  It  is  maddening!  There 
should  be  only  stone  in  front  of  the  Palace  of  the 
Kings.  This  mass  of  iron,  which  threatens  us,  will 
cross  the  river  just  beside  the  Pointe  du  Vert-Galant, 
it  seems. 

In  this  way  they  will  spoil  the  amazing  view 
composed  of  the  two  banks  of  the  river,  the 
Louvre,  the  Palais  Mazarin,  the  Monnaie,  the 
verdant  prow  of  the  Ile-de-la-Cite,  and  the 
Pont-Neuf,  majestic  as  a  tragedy  of  Corneille,  or 
a  canvas  of  Poussin.  If  that  view  is  perfect,  it  is 
because  from  generation  to  generation  Parisians  be- 
queathed to  each  other  the  task  of  embellishing  it. 
Just  as  the  strains  of  Amphion's  lyre  raised  the 
obedient  stones  which  formed  divine  monuments  of 
themselves,  so  a  secret  melody  has  grouped  in 
irreproachable  order  all  these  radiant  edifices  around 
the  Seine,  in  whose  waters  their  reflection  trembles. 

Now,  all  of  a  sudden,  this  great  masterpiece  must 
be  ravaged! 

FRANCE. — Practical  utility,  they  say.  But,  is 
there  anything  more  useful  to  a  nation  than  the 
charm  of  a  city  which  visibly  expresses  the  mind  of 
the  race,  sociable,  daring,  well-balanced,  clear  and 
joyous?  That  is  a  lesson  which,  in  my  opinion,  is 
worth  all  the  iron  bridges  to  the  life  and  the  future 
of  a  people. 


Anatole  France  at  Rodin's 

•  ••••»• 

After  coffee  we  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  on 
to  the  edge  of  a  slope  from  which  the  eye  could 
take  in  the  immensity  of  Paris.  As  far  as  the  most 
distant  horizon  there  spread  out  an  ocean  of  domes, 
towers  and  steeples.  Through  the  fleecy  clouds 
the  gold  and  opal  rays  of  the  sun  shone  upon  this 
vast  billow  of  stone.  But  frequently  the  smoke 
from  the  factories  which  hummed  in  the  valley 
spread  gigantic  black  ribbons  over  this  fairyland. 

Was  it  so  difficult,  asked  France,  to  remove  away 
from  the  city  these  nauseating  factories?  Is  it  not 
absurd  to  allow  the  air  of  Paris  to  be  poisoned  con~ 
tinually  by  the  lofty  chimneys  that  surround  it? 
Is  it  not  an  odious  sacrilege  against  so  lovely  a  city? 

RODIN. — Our  epoch,  in  which  money  rules,  tol- 
erates the  worst  outrages  upon  the  right  of  all  to 
both  health  and  beauty.  It  infects  and  soils  every- 
thing. It  kills  Dream!  It  kills  Dream! 

FRANCE. — But  Dreams  always  rise  again,  and  per- 
haps it  will  take  vengeance.  Perhaps  it  will  soon 
create  another  social  order  less  basely  utilitarian, 
and  less  contemptuous  of  the  spirit. 

Such  was  the  sad  discourse  held  by  these  two 
prophets  on  the  hill  of  Meudon. 


1:195:1 


On  War 


On  War 

M.  Bergeret  has  always  detested  war.  In  sev- 
eral of  his  books,  Le  Lys  rouge,  L'Orme  du  Mail 
and  Le  Mannequin  d'Osier,  for  example,  he  has  ex- 
pressed his  hatred  with  an  irony  even  more  power- 
ful than  rage.  Before  the  storm  broke  he  would 
sometimes  say  that  he  did  not  believe  in  it,  because 
formidable  armaments  would  make  it  too  horrible, 
and  because  the  governments  of  Europe,  all  more  or 
less  tinged  with  democracy,  would  hesitate  before 
the  risks  of  warfare.  At  other  times,  however, 
like  all  of  us,  he  was  filled  with  dread. 

"It  would  be  madness,"  he  wrote  in  the  preface 
to  Jeanne  d'Arc,  "to  pretend  that  we  are  assured  of 
a  peace  which  nothing  can  disturb.  The  terrible 
industrial  and  commercial  rivalries  which  are  grow- 
ing up  around  us,  on  the  contrary,  give  us  a  fore- 
boding of  future  conflicts,  and  there  is  no  guaran- 
tee that  France  will  not  be  involved  one  day  in  a 
European  or  world-wide  conflagration." 

A  tragic  prophecy  which  was  to  be  confirmed  only 
too  soon,  alas! 

During  the  dreadful  years  when  his  native  land, 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

which  he  cherishes  with  filial  piety,  was  threatened 
with  destruction,  his  heart  was  heavy  with  grief. 
Occasionally  his  conversation  revealed  the  appre- 
hension which  he  felt  at  the  rise  of  the  spirit  of 
conquest  in  the  allies  accordingly  as  their  triumph 
became  more  certain. 

Immediately  after  the  armistice,  when  he  was 
taking  part  in  a  ceremony  in  memory  of  Jean  Jaures, 
he  made  in  the  midst  of  the  excited  crowd  one  of 
those  noble  gestures  which  the  latter  easily  under- 
stand and  always  applaud.  Taking  the  cross  of  a 
wounded  soldier  he  pinned  it  on  the  bust  of  the  man 
who  had  so  passionately  preached  fraternity,  and 
who  had  given  his  life  for  it.  In  this  fashion  he 
testified  that  the  people  of  France  had  made  a  holy 
sacrifice  of  their  blood  to  peace,  which  they  would 
defend  henceforth,  without  flinching,  against  belli- 
cose madness.  Ever  since,  he  has  not  missed  an 
opportunity  of  again  launching  his  anathema  against 
war,  and  praying  for  a  social  order  from  which  it 
will  be  banished  for  ever. 

The  following  conversation  took  place  at  the 
Villa  Said  some  years  before  the  inexpiable  calam- 
ity. On  account  of  Morocco  our  relations  were 
strained  with  our  inconvenient  neighbours  in  the 
East.  In  the  distance  the  storm  was  beginning  to 
rumble.  This  day  M.  Bergeret  began  by  speaking 
[2003 


On  War 

of  the  cross-Channel  press,  which  was  taking  our 
side  against  the  Germans  just  a  little  too  blatantly. 

England  frightens  me,  he  murmured;  she  is  ex- 
cessively warlike.  There  is  no  doubt  she  is  brave, 
and  it  may  be  that  she  does  not  fear  war  for  her- 
self. But  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  she 
fears  it  still  less  for  France. 

(We  laughed.) 

FRANCE. — Oh,  the  phrase  is  not  mine!  At  least, 
it  is  merely  a  variation  of  the  funny  threat  which  a 
certain  Bermudez  de  Castro  once  made  against 
Baudelaire. 

France  was  asked  to  tell  the  story  of  Bermudez, 
and  he  did  not  have  to  be  pressed. 

He  was  a  noble  Spaniard.  He  had  been  perse- 
cuted in  his  own  country  for  translating  "Les 
Mysteres  de  Paris.''  The  clericals  down  there 
were  so  sensitive  to  offence  that  our  puerile 
Eugene  Sue  seemed  devilish  to  them.  So  the 
translator  had  exiled  himself  in  France,  where  he 
had  been  well  received  by  literary  society. 
Theophile  Gautier,  Baudelaire,  Flaubert,  admitted 
him  to  their  circle,  for  his  originality  amused  them. 
As  an  hildalgo  he  was  monstrously  proud,  and  he 
was  miraculously  dirty.  In  order  to  know  what 
he  had  eaten  at  his  last  meal  it  was  only  necessary 
to  look  at  his  great  black  beard.  With  all  that, 
as  vain  as  Narcissus. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

One  day  when  he  was  dining  with  his  friends  he 
found  a  deliriously  perfumed  letter  underneath  his 
napkin.  It  had  been  put  there  by  Baudelaire. 
Bermudez  sniffed  the  envelope,  fancied  he  was 
about  to  have  a  pleasant  adventure,  and  shoved  the 
letter  furtively  into  his  pocket.  Then,  as  soon  as 
they  rose  from  the  table,  he  went  off  into  a  corner 
by  himself  to  read  it.  His  eyes  were  flashing,  his 
nostrils  quivering,  and  he  sighed  with  anticipation. 
Baudelaire  and  the  others  were  watching  him 
surreptitiously  and  enjoying  every  one  of  his 
expressions. 

This  is  more  or  less  what  the  damsel  wrote: 

"Noble  Spaniard,  you  are  so  tall  and  I  am  so 
supple;  you  are  dark  and  I  am  fair;  you  are  strong 
and  I  am  beautiful.  I  love  you.  Be  at  the  Place  Saint- 
Sulpice  tonight  at  midnight,  near  the  fountain." 

At  midnight  the  practical  jokers,  who  had  pre- 
tended to  go  home,  went  off  and  hid  themselves  not 
far  from  the  meeting-place.  It  was  winter,  and 
bitterly  cold.  The  hidalgo  was  already  there, 
holding  himself  more  stiffly  than  ever.  With  his 
hand  on  his  hip,  and  his  moustaches  bristling,  he 
was  walking  around  the  fountain.  A  biting  wind 
swept  the  deserted  square,  and  lashed  the  water, 
which  had  frozen  on  the  muzzles  of  the  stone  lions 
and  formed  fantastic  white  beards. 

Bermudez  kept  walking  round  and  round, 
[202] 


On  War 

//  struck  the  quarter,  then  half-past.     Phlegmatic 
and  proud,  he  continued  to  walk  round.     Suddenly, 
from  a  corner  of  the  square  there  came  a  great 
burst  of  laughter,  followed  by  the  mocking  shout: 
"Ah,  ha!     Senor  Don  Juan!" 
Then  Bermudez  shouted  in  a  fury: 
"Ah!     I  recognize  that  voice.     It  is  Bodelairre." 
He  rolled  his  r's  terrifically. 

"I  will  kill  him;  I  will  kill  him,  if  I  have  to  die 
myself.  I  do  not  hold  my  life  very  dear,  but  I  hold 
Bodelairre's  even  more  cheaply. 

Then  he  withdrew  majestically.  Next  day  he 
had  forgotten  his  threats. 

Charles  Saunier,  the  art  critic,  took  a  notebook 
from  his  pocket,  and  wrote  down  this  anecdote. 

"I  belong,"  said  he,  "to  the  Historical  Society 
of  the  Sixth  Ward,  in  which  the  Visconti  Fountain 
is  situated.  The  slightest  incidents  that  take  place 
within  this  limited  area  interest  us  prodigiously. 
The  greatest  events  that  happen  in  the  rest  of  the 
world  hardly  disturb  us.  But,"  he  continued, 
"I  fancy  you  have  related  a  similar  scene  in 
Jocaste  et  le  Chat  maigre.}> 

Ah,  yes!  said  France.  It  was  precisely  the 
adventure  of  Bermudez  which  I  attributed  to 
another  character. 

C203;] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

An  old  gentleman  who  was  present  cut  short  this 
conversation,  which  he  considered  frivolous: 

"We  were  talking  of  a  war  in  the  near  future," 
he  grumbled.  "Well,  if  it  breaks  out,  so  much 
the  better  I" 

The  author  of  this  peremptory  declaration  was 
an  obscure  poet,  who  has  since  died.  To  judge  by 
his  remarks,  always  overflowing  with  jingoism, 
his  Muse  must  have  been  very  heroic.  But  no- 
body had  ever  read  his  poems.  He  was  so  swollen 
with  gout  that  he  could  not  put  on  his  boots.  His 
feet  dragged  in  old  shoes  laced  over  huge  bandages 
of  white  linen.  It  was  in  this  attire  that  he  went 
visiting.  He  coughed,  his  eyes  ran  water,  and  he 
stammered.  He  often  came  to  Anatole  France's, 
for  he  had  known  him  a  long  time.  The  Master 
tolerated  him,  but  he  would  sometimes  say,  when 
he  was  not  there: 

Certain  old  friends  would  make  me  doubt  friend- 
ship, that  divine  gift.  They  plume  themselves  on 
being  deeply  attached,  and,  indeed,  they  are,  like 
mussels  on  the  keel  of  a  ship.  As  you  know,  they 
are  often  poisonous! 

Nobody  had  taken  up  the  challenging  remark 
of  the  gouty  bard.  But,  tapping  the  arms  of  his 
chair  with  his  flabby  hands,  he  continued,  between 
two  attacks  of  asthma: 

"We  have  remained,  thank  God,  a  nation  of 
C204] 


On  War 

soldiers!  Atchew!  We  are  fond  of  war!  Atchew! 
.  .  .  All  we  ask  is  an  opportunity  to  fight! 
Atchew!  We  shall  go  and  get  back  the  clocks 
which  the  Boches  stole  from  us  in  1870.  Atchew! 
Atchew!" 

France,  who  had  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
without  speaking,  said  to  him  gently: 

/  ad(mire  this  fine  enthusiasm  in  a  veteran,  and  I 
am  sure,  if  the  country  is  in  danger,  that  the  young 
men  of  spirit  will  pour  out  their  blood  generously 
for  it.  But  as  for  the  pretence  that  the  French 
like  war;  it  is  not  true.  No  people  ever  loved  war. 
No  people  ever  wanted  to  fight.  At  bottom,  the 
crowd  always  looks  upon  fighting  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

What  particularly  distorts  the  ideas  of  historians 
is  the  rhetoric  of  Livy.  Now,  I  do  not  believe 
this  Paduan  was  sincere.  He  knew  very  well  that 
nobody  is  happy  to  be  exposed  to  death.  But  he 
said  to  himself  that  it  was  necessary  to  raise  the 
morale  of  the  Romans,  who  were  becoming  ener- 
vated, and  he  swelled  his  sonorous  periods. 

The  valour  which  he  celebrated  is  usually  at- 
tributed to  the  armies  that  win  victories.  We 
imagine  that  they  deserved  their  success  because  of 
their  contempt  of  danger,  and  that  the  conquered 
armies,  on  the  contrary,  were  lacking  in  courage. 
These  are  gratuitous  assumptions.  Most  fre- 
[205;] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

quently  it  is  chance  that  decides  battles.  So  far 
as  armies  are  concerned,  I  suspect  them  all  of  being 
mediocre,  and  that  none  will  face  suffering  and 
death  gladly. 

Our  revolutionary  troops  have  been  praised  in 
lyric  strains.  In  this  connection  I  discovered  by 
chance  a  very  edifying  little  work,  by  some  one 
called  Roziere,  "La  Revolution  a  Meulan."  I 
have  not  the  book  any  longer.  I  lent  it,  and  it  has 
not  been  returned:  a  proof  of  its  interest. 

When  the  country  was  in  danger  troops  were 
raised  at  Meulan  as  in  every  other  part  of  France. 
It  was  done  with  great  pomp.  The  mayor  as- 
sembled the  population  in  the  chapel.  Drums 
rolled  and  the  young  men  swore  to  conquer  or  die, 
they  sang  the  "Chant  du  Depart,"  and  set  of  to 
join  the  army.  .  .  .  But  a  week  later  most  of  them 
were  found  in  the  country  around  Meulan.  When 
the  situation  again  became  critical,  the  mayor 
deemed  it  advisable  to  make  a  fresh  appeal  to  the 
citizens.  He  reassembled  them.  The  same  con- 
scripts were  enrolled  .  .  .  and  returned  after  a  few 
days'  absence.  This  ceremony  was  repeated  several 
times  with  the  same  actors.  Finally,  one  lone 
citizen  of  Meulan  remained  in  the  army,  one  only! 
They  say  he  became  a  general.  He  certainly 
deserved  to. 

I  fancy  it  was  not  very  different  with  the  number 

£206:1 


On  War 

of  enrolments  at  the  Pont-Neuf,  for,  after  all,  when 
one  offers  one's  devotion  to  France  on  the  Pont- 
Neuf,  you  must  understand  that  it  is  particularly  to 
show  oneself  of.  To  have  been  seen  is  sufficient! 
One's  duty  has  been  done. 

THE  OLD  POET,  (coughing) — "Come!  Come! 
My  dear  France.  ...  I  cannot  accept  your  irony. 
Military  virtue  .  .  .  atchew !  is  fortunately  not 
rare,  atchew!  and  you  will  grant  that  .  .  .  atchew! 
atchew!  .  .  ." 

FRANCE. — Certainly,  I  will  grant  you  that  there 
are  heroes.  Even  then,  they  are  not  always 
heroic.  The  true  hero  admits  that  he  has  some- 
times lacked  courage.  I  grant  that  certain  troops, 
in  moments  of  exaltation,  brave  frightful  risks  with 
intrepidity.  But  from  everything  we  know  we 
must  conclude  that  the  majority  of  soldiers  in  an 
army  cling  desperately  to  life,  and  would  not  expose 
themselves,  if  they  were  not  compelled.  That  is 
why  the  little  book  I  have  just  mentioned,  though 
it  obviously  does  not  indicate  the  state  of  mind  of 
all  Frenchmen  during  the  Revolution,  does  seem  to 
me  worthy  of  credit.  And  my  own  experience 
corroborates  it. 

THE  OLD  POET.— "Your  ex  ...  atchew  .  .  . 
perience?" 

FRANCE. — Yes.  .  .  .  Listen.  I  will  give  you  a 
very  faithful  account  of  some  of  my  impressions  as 

£207] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

a  member  of  the  national  guard  during  the  siege  of 
Paris. 

The  major  of  our  batallion  was  a  stout  grocer 
from  our  quarter.  He  was  lacking  in  authority,  it 
must  be  confessed,  because  he  tried  to  humour  his 
customers.  One  day  we  were  ordered  to  take 
part  in  a  sortie.  We  were  sent  to  the  banks  of  the 
Marne.  Our  major  looked  splendid  in  his  bright 
uniform  which  had  never  seen  service.  He  rode 
a  charming  little  Arab  pony  which  he  had  managed 
to  get  somewhere  or  other,  and  of  which  he  was 
very  proud,  an  all  white  pony,  adorably  graceful 
and  frisky.  Too  frisky,  for  it  proved  the  poor 
grocer's  undoing.  When  he  was  making  it  prance, 
it  reared  up  to  its  full  height,  fell  on  its  back  and 
killed  our  major  on  the  spot  by  breaking  his  spine. 
We  had  few  regrets  for  our  leader.  We  decided 
to  stop,  break  our  ranks  and  stretch  ourselves  out 
on  the  grass  of  the  river's  bank.  We  lay  there  all 
the  morning,  then  all  the  afternoon.  The  artillery 
was  thunderng  in  the  distance.  .  .  .  We  took  care 
to  give  the  cannons  a  wide  berth. 

Towards  evening  we  saw  some  sailors  running 
along  the  road  which  dominated  the  bank  of  the 
river.  Many  of  them  were  black  with  gunpowder. 
Wounded  men  were  wearing  bloody  bandages. 
These  brave  fellows  had  fought  well,  but  they  had 


On  War 

to  give  way  to  bad  luck.  Why,  I  cannot  say,  but 
we  began  to  shout:  "Hurrah  for  the  fleet!" 

This  shout,  which  the  sailors  thought  ironical, 
succeeded  in  annoying  them.  Several  charged  upon 
us  with  fixed  bayonets.  This  looked  dangerous 
to  us.  We  rushed  headlong  from  the  grassy  slopes 
and  put  some  distance  between  us  and  them.  As 
we  'were  well  rested  and  our  pursuers  were  over- 
come with  fatigue,  we  easily  got  away  from  them. 
We  returned  to  Paris.  But  our  prolonged  inac- 
tivity weighed  upon  us  and  we  were  very  hungry. 
Consequently,  we  had  no  scruples  in  pillaging  a 
bakery  whch  we  encountered  on  the  way.  Fortu- 
nately, the  owners  had  had  time  to  escape,  so  we 
were  not  guilty  of  homicide. 

Such  was  our  conduct.  I  do  not  boast  of  it. 
No;  I  do  not.  But  I  love  truth  and  must  do  her 
homage. 

THE  OLD  POET. — "Those  are  certainly  ex- 
ceptional incidents  .  .  .  atchew!  I  am  sure  that 
»> 

France. — My  dear  friend,  I  should  not  like  to 
shake  your  faith.  Above  all,  beware  of  the  notion 
that  I  want  to  belittle  my  companions  in  arms. 
Our  enemy  was  in  no  wise  different  from  ourselves. 
Few  of  them  were  heroes.  Many  witnesses  saw 
German  soldiers  weeping  when  they  were  sent  into 

C209] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

dangerous  zones.  And  why  mock  at  those  tears? 
They  probably  were  aroused  by  the  memory  of 
young  wives  who  would  never  see  their  husbands 
again,  of  little  children  who  would  never  kiss  their 
fathers. 

But,  let  me  tell  you  another  anecdote. 

Shortly  after  the  war  of  '70  I  happened  to  be  in 
X.  ...  As  I  entered  an  inn  I  heard  great  shouts  of 
laughter,  and  I  saw  the  natives  of  the  place  in  a 
circle  around  a  robust  lad.  He  was  explaining  to 
them  how  he  had  succeeded  in  avoiding  all  the 
battles. 

"First  of  all,"  he  was  saying,  "I  leaves  my  place 
two  weeks  late.  When  I  sees  the  sergeant  I  thinks 
to  myself  he's  goin'  to  blow  me  up.  But  I  ain't 
such  a  fool;  I  plays  the  idiot.  To  everything  he 
asks  I  says:  moo,  moo,  like  a  cow. 

"  What  a  swine!  What  a  swine!'  says  he. 
'Not  a  damned  thing  to  be  got  out  of  him  except, 
moo,  moo.' 

"In  the  end  an  officer  said  to  me:  'Heh,  there, 
you  idiot!  Since  you're  a  farm  hand,  you  know 
about  horses' 

"I  nods,  yes. 

"  'Well,  you  can  take  these  two  nags  to  Colonel 
Bouchard  of  the  Twenty-eighth  Regiment,  Third 
Army  Corps.  There  are  your  marching  orders, 

C2IO] 


On  War 

and  food  for  the  three  of  you,  the  two  beasts  and 
yourself.' 

"I  nods  again,  and  of  we  go. 

"But,  it  so  happens  that  I  takes  the  wrong  road 
and  the  two  nags  to  the  colonel  of  another  regi- 
ment. This  one,  as  soon  as  he  spots  my  papers: 

"  'Hell!  what  a  fool  you  are!'  he  says  to  me, 
and  he  puts  me  on  to  the  right  road  and  gives  me 
a  few  francs. 

"I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  loses  my  way 
again.  And  all  the  time  the  trouble  lasted  I 
wanders  about  from  one  colonel  to  another.  But 
once  peace  come,  I  takes  my  two  nags  straight  to 
the  right  colonel  of  the  right  regiment.  And  here 
I  am." 

Now,  the  cynical  confessions  of  this  rascal  were 
greeted  with  sympathetic  laughter. 

I  do  not  assert  that  the  same  audience  would  not 
have  responded  to  a  narrative  of  great  devotion 
to  duty.  The  roughest  men,  if  they  admire  cunning, 
also  venerate  nobility. 

However,  the  gallery  did  not  blame  this  slyboots. 
The  crowd  has  always  a  fund  of  indulgence  for 
Panurge  when  that  unpleasant  accident  befalls  him 
in  the  fight,  for  Sosie,  when  he  gorges  himself 
with  ham  and  wine  in  a  tent  far  from  the  battle. 
It  really  seems  to  me  quite  impossible  that  the  plain 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

people  can  ever  be  infected  with  the  jingoism  which 
infects  our  middle-classes  from  time  to  time.  On 
the  contrary,  I  notice  that  anti-militarism  is  bolder 
than  ever.  Formerly  the  deserters,  and  the 
slackers,  never  tried  to  defend  their  conduct. 
"We  are  betrayed''  they  would  shout.  "We  are 
sold!"  That  was  their  only  justification. 

Now  they  have  a  theory  and  reasoned  motives. 
"Le  Chant  du  Depart"  has  been  replaced  by  a 
hymn  "Pour  ne  pas  Partir."  To  set  one's  refusal 
to  march  to  music,  is  to  become  glorious. 

THE  OLD  POET. — "So  you  approve  of  them?" 

FRANCE. — Do  not  put  into  my  mouth  what  is  not 
in  my  mind.  No;  I  do  not  approve  of  them,  for 
in  the  present  European  situation  they  run  the  risk 
of  helping  the  worst  enemies  of  civilization. 

THE  OLD  POET. — "So  you  admit  that  one's 
country.  .  .  ' 

FRANCE. — /  admit  that  our  country  would  deserve 
to  be  passionately  defended,  if  it  were  threatened. 
And  then,  we  must  clearly  see  in  what  way  it  has  a 
right  to  our  affection.  If  by  the  word  country  is 
meant  the  sum  of  great  ideas  and  profound  feelings 
which  differ  from  one  country  to  another,  and  con- 
stitute French  wit,  English  good  sense,  German 
dialectics,  that  is  certainly  a  treasure  which  should 
be  dear  to  every  nation.  It  is  a  flag  of  light 
planted  on  each  territory.  The  finest  geniuses  of 

[2123 


On  War 

each  race  have  borne  it  higher  and  higher.  After 
the  event,  and  gradually,  they  have  given  a  magnif- 
icent spiritual  significance  to  these  groups  which  the 
fortuitous  circumstances  of  history  had  originally 
brought  together  haphazardly. 

But  these  moving  national  doctrines,  if  they 
differ,  are  not  divergent,  at  least.  The  most  emi- 
nent thinkers  clasp  hands  across  frontiers.  They 
have  neither  the  same  tendencies  nor  the  same 
thoughts,  yet  they  are  brought  together  by  their 
humanity,  by  their  compassion  for  their  fellow-men. 
It  is,  therefore,  by  a  culpable  deception  that  people 
try  to  oppose  one  national  consciousness  against 
another.  On  the  contrary,  in  their  most  serene  ex- 
pression they  are  complementary.  A  man  can 
adore  his  own  country  while  revering  others. 

Unfortunately,  a  country  is  not  only  a  collection 
of  radiant  ideas.  It  is  also  the  business  address 
of  a  host  of  financial  enterprises  of  which  many 
have  little  to  recommend  them.  More  than  any- 
thing,else  it  is  the  antagonism  of  capitalistic  appe- 
tites, often  most  illegitimate,  which  drives  the 
nations  into  conflict,  and  causes  modern  wars. 
Nothing  could  be  sadder.  From  the  bottom  of 
my  soul  I  wish  my  country  to  abstain  from  all  greed 
which  might  make  her  in  the  slightest  degree  re- 
sponsible for  a  struggle.  But  if  she  were  ever  in- 
vaded by  a  covetous  neighbour,  it  would  be  the  duty 

C2I33 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

of  her  sons  to  fly  to  her  help.  It  would,  indeed, 
be  the  darkest  calamity  if  France  were  diminished, 
for  after  all,  do  you  not  agree,  our  country  stands 
for  very  generous  aspirations? 

THE  OLD  POET. — "Ah,  ha!  you  see  ...  at- 
chew !  Chauvinism  has  its  good  points." 

FRANCE,  (emphatically) — Not  at  all!  It  is 
criminal  folly.  When  the  jingos  say  that  war  is 
sublime,  that  it  is  the  school  of  all  the  virtues, 
that  it  refashions  and  regenerates  men,  that 
Providence  gives  victory  to  the  most  worthy,  and 
that  the  greatness  of  a  people  is  measured  by  its 
victories,  that  is,  by  massacres  in  which  its  own 
children  perish  with  the  enemy,  they  are  ridiculous 
and  odious. 

THE  OLD  POET. — "But  how  will  you  per- 
suade people  to  sacrifice  themselves  to  their 
country?" 

FRANCE. — By  making  the  country  always  better, 
always  more  just,  more  ^maternal  towards  the 
people  .  .  .  more  loyal,  more  fraternal  towards 
other  nations  .  .  .  by  ceaselessly  repeating  that  war 
is  abominable,  by  carefully  avoiding  all  the  tortuous 
intrigues  which  might  provoke  it  .  .  .  by  proving 
by  the  striking  frankness  of  our  conduct  that  we  do 
not  wish  to  take  up  arms,  that  we  shall  use  them 
only  to  defend  our  liberty. 

Then  the  people  will  love  their  country  which 


On  War 

will  be  identified  in  their  hearts  *with  the  finest  fu- 
ture of  the  human  race.  And  if,  by  any  misfor- 
tune, it  is  attacked,  they  will  not  allow  it  to  sue- 
cumb.1 

1  Sue h  ivere  the  opinions  of  M.  France  at  that  time.  By  ad- 
hering to  communism  he  has  since  testified  that  only  the  inter- 
national organization  of  the  proletariat  seems  to  him  capable  of 
preventing  the  return  of  ivar. 


£215:1 


The  Russian  Revolution 
at  the  Villa  Said 


The  Russian  Revolution  at  the 
Villa  Said 

It  was  during  the  cold  season.  When  Jose- 
phine opened  the  door  for  me  I  saw  the  hall  littered 
with  overcoats,  mufflers  and  furs.  The  clothes  of 
M.  Bergeret's  friends  were  piled  up  on  chairs  and 
consoles.  Hats  were  hanging  on  lovely  rococo 
chandeliers.  Overcoats  were  thrown  over  the  bot- 
tom of  the  gothic  bannisters  of  old  carved  oak. 

"Are  there  many  visitors?"  I  asked  Josephine. 

"Too  many,"  she  replied  in  a  surly  tone. 
"There  are  heaps  of  Russians." 

Josephine  had  little  sympathy  for  the  Slavic  race. 

"It  is  hard  to  know,'"  she  went  on,  "why  the 
Master  receives  such  people.  They're  full  of  fleas. 
Just  look  at  those  old  topcoats." 

As  she  spoke  she  felt  with  her  thumb  and  fore- 
finger a  wretched  Inverness,  all  threadbare.  She 
continued  to  mutter  between  her  teeth. 

"These  Russians,  they're  good  for  nothing  ex- 
cept making  dirt  about  the  house.  And  I'm  sure 
they  have  bombs.  If  the  Master  would  listen  to 
me,  he  would  choose  his  society  more  carefully. 
Celebrated  as  he  is,  he  ought  only  to  see  the  best 
people." 

C2I9;] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

I  left  her  to  her  bad  humour. 

In  the  library  I  found  several  Russian  revolu- 
tionaries with  the  Master.  Amongst  others  there 
was  K.  the  famous  sociologist,  a  colossus  with  long 
fair  curly  hair,  stray  hairs  all  over  his  face,  large 
blue  eyes,  surprised  and  tender,  and  a  smiling,  in- 
fantine and  beatific  expression — the  perfect  type  of 
the  scholarly  anarchist  who  candily  overturns  so- 
ciety with  his  ideas. 

It  was  the  time  when  Nicholas  II  was  beginning 
to  struggle  against  the  revolt  of  his  people,  grown 
tired  of  the  knout  and  the  nagaika.  S.  the  Peters- 
burgh  newspaper  correspondent,  who  had  under- 
taken a  tour  of  lectures  against  Tsarism  all  over 
France,  was  giving  an  account  of  a  speech  he  had 
made  the  previous  evening  at  Valenciennes. 

"A  most  sympathetic  audience,"  he  said,  "which 
seemed  well  informed  on  the  subject." 

FRANCE. — In  other  words,  nowadays  the  prov- 
inces are  on  the  same  Intellectual  level  as  Paris. 

S. — "Except  certain  regions;  for  example,  Brit- 
tany." 

FRANCE. — It  is  true,  the  Bretons  are  backward. 
That  is  partly  due  to  their  ignorance  of  our  lan- 
guage. If  they  understood  it,  they  would  perhaps 
be  more  favourable  than  others  to  certain  of  our 
social  ideas.  Thus,  I  believe  they  would  readily 
accept  collectivism.  They  have  been  prepared  for 
C2203 


Russian  Revolution  at  Villa  Said 

it  by  the  habit  of  common  ownership,  which  is  fre- 
quent with  them  as  in  all  poor  countries,  for  at  pres- 
ent it  is  only  the  worst  land  and  the  poorest  pas- 
ture which  can  remain  common  property,  while  the 
slightest  fertile  bit  is  at  once  seized  upon.  Un- 
fortunately, we  have  no  speakers  who  know  their 
dialect. 

Their  drunkenness  is  also  fatal. 

At  all  events,  during  my  last  stay  at  Quiberon 
they  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  backward.  They 
apply  none  of  the  new  methods  of  fishing.  It  is  in 
the  most  haphazard  fashion  that  they  go  out  for 
fish.  They  never  think  of  telegraphing  to  each 
other  the  movements  of  the  shoals.  When  it  comes 
to  selling  they  do  it  under  the  most  heart-breaking 
conditions. 

The  fishwife  who  sells  the  haul  is  a  big,  substan- 
tial beldame,  who  waits  for  them  on  the  shore  and 
anxiously  watches  for  their  return.  As  soon  as 
they  land  she  takes  them  all  to  the  public-house, 
where  she  makes  them  drunk,  and  it  is  when  they  are 
drunk  that  she  settles  'with  them  for  the  purchase 
of  the  haul. 

Observe  that  she  is  an  intermediary  with  whom 
they  could  quite  well  dispense.  Often  the  merchant 
who  is  going  to  send  the  fish  to  Paris  is  also  wait- 
ing, right  beside  her  on  the  shore.  But  it  never 
occurs  to  them  to  deal  directly  with  him. 

C22I] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

What  has  confirmed  me  in  my  unfavourable  opin- 
ion of  their  intelligence  is  a  conversation  which  I 
overheard  between  two  Breton  women.  I  assure 
you  I  was  not  eavesdropping,  for  they  were  separ- 
ated by  half  a  kilometre,  and  it  was  at  this  distance 
that  they  apostrophized  each  other  at  top  of  their 
voices,  like  heroes  of  Homer. 

One  of  them  shouted — note  this  carefully,  said 
France  to  the  old  sociologist — she  shouted:  "You 
are  a  dirty  dog,  to  go  with  my  man!"  And  the 
other  replied,  in  the  same  tone-.  "If  your  man 
goes  with  me,  it  is  because  I  am  a  better  made  woman 
than  you  are." 

Now,  I  do  not  kno\w,  Sir,  if  you  agree  with  me, 
but  that  retort  seemed  to  me  to  denote  the  most 
complete  absence  of  psychological  observation.  It 
is  certain  that,  if  we  love  one  woman  more  than  an- 
other, it  is  not  because  her  physical  charms  seem 
greater,  but  for  a  host  of  very  different  and  very 
complex  reasons. 

The  venerable  sociologist  endeavoured  to  form 
an  opinion,  but  without  success.  A  moment  later 
France  said  to  him: 

Father  Gapon  must  be  pleased:  the  Russian  rev- 
olution has  come  to  a  full  stop. 

Then    addressing    the    other    persons    present: 

Our  friend  S.  introduced  me  to  this  priest  of 
which  we  hear  so  much.  He  brought  him  here  to 
C222] 


Russian  Revolution  at  Villa  Said 

the  house.  He  is  a  robust  young  man,  with  dark 
hair  and  tanned  skin.  I  timidly  confess  that  he  did 
not  make  a  very  good  impression  on  me.  He  is 
verbose  and  emphatic.  As  he  does  not  know  a 
word  of  French,  S.  translated  what  he  said  and 
took  it  upon  himself  to  curtail  it.  Gapon  noticed 
this  and  flew  into  a  great  rage. 

"He  is  scolding  me,"  said  S.,  "because  I  cut  short 
his  last  sentence,  in  which  he  compared  Nicholas  II 
to  a  tiger.  What  he  said  was:  "He  is  a  tiger 
thirsty  for  human  blood." 

Well,  that  quarrel  about  a  metaphor  seemed  to 
me  in  bad  taste.  After  all,  every  royal  or  imperial 
tiger  thirsts  for  human  blood.1 

Gapon,  who  led  the  first  processions  of  the 
strikers  at  Petersburg,  believes  that  the  people 
must  be  granted  some  respite  before  asking  new 
e forts  of  them.  I  do  not  know  if  he  is  right,  but 
the  danger  is  that  the  halt  may  become  a  long  de- 

1  It  may  perhaps  be  recalled  that  this  Gapon  <was  an  agent, 
provocateur,  in  the  pay  of  the  Tsarist  police.  In  Petersburgh  he 
placed  himself  at  the  head  of  a  great  working-class  demonstration, 
and  disappeared  just  at  the  moment  when  the  machine-guns  were 
mowing  down  the  crowd.  Shortly  afterwards  he  came  to  France, 
and  it  was  then  that  he  called  at  the  Villa  Sa'id.  Then  he  went 
off  to  the  Cote  d'Azur  to  have  a  good  time  with  the  price  of  his 
treason.  He  met  with  the  end  he  deserved.  Having  secured  proof 
of  his  infamy,  the  Revolutionaries  lured  him  into  a  trap  and 
executed  him.  When  he  visited  Anatole  France,  he  was  still 
unsuspected.  Yet,  as  the  dialogue  noted  here  shows,  M.  Bergeret 
vias  not  his  dupe. 

£223:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

lay.  Maybe  the  Russians  are  still  too  much  en- 
slaved and  too  unhappy  to  desire  liberty  passion- 
ately. It  is  a  fact  that  almost  all  revolutions  that 
succeed  permanently  limit  themselves  to  confirm- 
ing results  already  achieved.  Look  at  that  of  '8g. 
It  was  the  centres  already  freed  from  feudalism 
which  arose  and  demanded  the  abolition  of  the  old 
order.  As  for  the  provinces,  which  were  still  galled 
by  the  traditional  yoke,  they  had  so  little  thought 
of  shaking  it  of,  that  they  shed  their  blood  oppos- 
ing the  revolution.  That  was  the  case  of  Vendee 
and  Brittany. 

Similarly  with  socialism.  It  numbers  its  staunch- 
est  adherents  in  the  big  unions,  like  the  miners, 
who,  thanks  to  their  discipline,  are  precisely  those 
who  have  already  obtained  a  good  part  of  the  ad- 
vantages promised  by  socialism.  Whereas  the  most 
obstinate  opponents  of  this  doctrine  are  the  peasants, 
who  suffer  most  from  the  bourgeois  system.  The 
fact  is,  social  changes  take  place  only  when  they  are 
ripe.  That  is  why  I  wonder  whether  the  Russians 
are  not  still  too  greatly  deprived  of  the  benefits 
which  revolution  would  procure  them  to  be  willing 
to  fight  for  them. 

K.  protested  that  his  compatriots  were  more  en- 
lightened than  people  imagined. 

FRANCE. — And  is  their  devotion  to  the  Tsar  not 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  their  emancipation? 

122$ 


Russian  Revolution  at  Villa  Said 

K. — "The  religious  respect  of  Russia  for  its  sov- 
ereign has  quickly  evaporated.  Our  people  are 
mystical,  but  perspicacious.  Having  proved  the 
Tsar's  lack  of  good  faith,  they  have  turned  away 
from  him.  Their  piety  remains  intact,  but  they 
jump  an  intermediate  stage  and  address  themselves 
directly  to  God." 

"They  are  more  intelligent  than  the  Breton  fisher- 
men," some  one  remarked,  "they  suppress  the 
middleman." 

K. — "Moreover,  it  is  wrong  to  picture  the  Rus- 
sians as  blindly  submissive  to  their  priests.  On  the 
contrary,  though  pious,  they  do  not  care  much  for 
the  clergy.  When  they  kiss  the  hand  of  a  pope  they 
mean  to  do  homage,  not  to  the  cleric,  but  to  the 
God  he  represents." 

FRANCE. — You  do  not  surprise  me  at  all.  Con- 
tempt for  priests  is  quite  compatible  with  piety. 
Usually,  the  populace  detests  the  cassock.  Why? 
No  doubt  for  the  simple  reason  that  is  is  lugubrious 
and  evokes  the  idea  of  the  extreme  unction. 

But,  tell  me,  is  not  Russian  mysticism  contem- 
plative, by  preference,  and  opposed  to  action? 
For  instance,  does  your  prophet,  Tolstoy,  not  preach 
resignation  to  the  moujiks,  and  what  he  calls  "non- 
resistance  to  evil?" 

K. — "Between  ourselves,  nobody  listens  to  him. 
Our  workmen  and  peasants  are  rough  fellows,  and 

C225] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

it  is  not  easy  to  put  them  to  sleep  again,  once  they 
have  been  roused." 

FRANCE. — Yes,  I  understand.  Moujiks  become 
•wolves  more  easily  than  wolves  become  sheep.  In- 
deed, that  is  truth  which  your  compatriot, 
Prince  Troubetzkoy,  recently  tested  in  Paris,  where 
he  lives.  Just  as  Tolstoy  invites  men  to  bleat,  this 
prince  had  undertaken  to  tame  wolves.  He  had 
caught  two  of  them  very  young.  He  had  reared 
them  and  led  them  on  a  leash  like  dogs.  In  order 
to  wean  them  from  their  instincts  he  fed  them 
chiefly  on  vegetables,  and  the  strangest  thing  is 
that,  for  some  time,  they  appeared  to  be  satisfied 
with  this  diet.  But  the  other  day  one  of  them  sud- 
denly planted  its  claws  in  the  arm  of  the  fruiterer 
from  whom  the  prince  himself  condescended  to  buy 
the  meals  of  his  pets,  and  they  had  great  difficulty 
in  making  this  wicked  wolf  let  go. 

There  is  no  moral,  by  the  way,  to  this  story. 

K.  (laughing) — "Nevertheless,  there  are  socio- 
logical conclusions  to  be  drawn." 

FRANCE. — //  you  like  .  .  . 

K. — "It  seems  to  me  the  best  way  to  help  the  prog- 
ress of  liberalism  in  our  country  at  this  moment 
is  to  advise  other  nations,  and  especially  the  French, 
not  to  subscribe  to  the  Russian  loan  until  the  Tsar- 
ist government  has  put  a  liberal  constitution  into 
force." 

C2263 


Russian  Revolution  at  Villa  Said 

FRANCE. — /  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  these 
tactics  will  proceed,  for  it  would  save  thousands  of 
human  lives.  Unfortunately,  it  is  certain  that,  if 
the  Russian  government  found  itself  supported  by 
our  money,  it  would  not  hesitate  to  plunge  into  the 
most  atrocious  reaction. 

K. — "It  is  preparing  for  that." 

FRANCE. — It  is  even  possible  that  it  may  succeed 
in  stifling  for  a  long  time  all  desire  for  indepen- 
dence. 

K. — "No;  for  reaction  would  soon  call  forth 
Terrorist  reprisals.  But  it  is  important  to  facili- 
tate the  task  of  the  Liberals,  and,  as  you  say,  to 
save  human  lives." 

FRANCE. — Alas  I  Every  human  advance  consumes 
too  many. 

C'est  un  ordre  des  dieux,  qui  jamais  ne  se  rompt 
De  nous  vend  re  bien  cher  les  bienfaits  qu'ils  nous  font. 
L'exil  des  Tarquins  meme  ensanglanta  nos  terres. 
Et  nos  premiers  consuls  nous  ont  coute  des  guerres! 

A  young  Slav,  very  dark,  with  long  hair  plastered 
with  {bear's  grease,  a  Mongol  complexion,  high 
cheek  bones  and  the  drooping  moustaches  of  a  Kal- 
muck, suddenly  broke  the  silence  which  he  had 
hitherto  preserved.  He  spoke  French  with  extreme 
difficulty: 

[2273 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

"For  the  success  of  the  Revolution  it  would  be 
better  to.  ... 

FRANCE. — Do  you  not  admire  the  power  of  our 
great  Corneille? 

THE  YOUNG  SLAV. — "Yes;  he  is  wonderful  .  .  . 
would  be  better  to.  .  .  ." 

FRANCE.- — 

L'exil  des  Tarquins  meme  ensanglanta  nos  terres 
Et  nos  premiers  consuls  nous  ont  coute  des  guerres! 

That    is    more    than    poetry;    it    is    more    than 
eloquence  .  .  . 

THE  YOUNG  SLAV.— uThe  Revolution.  .  .  ." 

France. — It  is  monumental!  .  .  . 

THE  YOUNG  SLAV,  (obstinately) — "Yes,  yes. 
.  .  .  You  are  mistaken  in  hoping  that  Tsarism  will 
abdicate.  .  .  .  No  confidence.  ...  It  would  be 
better  to  suffer  atrocious  persecution.  It  would  be 
better  to  have  many  martyrs,  a  great  deal  of  blood- 
shed, and  then  the  government  swept  away  by  an 
infuriated  people." 

FRANCE,  (addressing  his  guests) — This  young 
man,  as  you  see,  is  a  pure-blooded  revolutionary. 
If  necessary,  he  would  throw  bombs!  .  .  . 

The  dynamiter  began  to  smile.  From  his  coat 
pockets  he  drew  two  steel  tubes.  Then,  in  great 
triumph : 

C2283 


Russian  Revolution  at  Villa  Said 

"Bomb  in  two  parts.  Separated;  nothing  to 
fear.  If  the  two  halves  are  screwed  together,  the 
whole  house  blow  up." 

FRANCE,  (politely) — Do  not  screw  them, 
please.  And  take  my  word  for  it,  my  young  friend, 
as  long  as  there  are  other  means,  we  must  have 
recourse  to  them.  Remember  this:  homicidal 
justice,  even  when  administered  by  a  people  strug- 
gling for  freedom,  can  never  be  anything  but  a 
wretched  substitute.  It  is  not  good  to  quench  with 
blood  the  thirst  of  the  gods. 

He  resumed: 

The  cause  of  the  Russian  revolutionaries  con- 
cerns us  much  more  closely  than  people  imagine. 
If  they  were  defeated  the  spirit  of  liberty  would 
undergo  a  crisis  all  over  Europe.  On  the  other 
hand,  their  victory  would  give  a  great  impetus  to 
socialism  in  other  countries,  and  especially  in  our 
own. 

The  conversation  turned  to  the  French  revo- 
lutionary party. 

FRANCE. — The  people  in  our  country  are,  I  be- 
lieve, very  favorable  to  collectivism.  But  they 
have  only  an  instinct  where,  their  interests  are  con- 
cerned, and  remain  shockingly  indifferent  to  ideas. 
Recently  at  Bordeaux  I  had  occasion  to  question 
two  coopers  who  had  been  present  the  previous 
[229] 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

evening  at  a  lecture  by  Jules  Guesde.  "Did  he 
speak  well?"  "Certainly!"  "Did  you  under- 
stand everything  he  said?"  "Of  course!"  It  was 
quite  obvious.  "He  wishes  coopers  to  be  happy!" 
That  is  all  they  remembered. 

Another  anecdote.  A  few  days  ago  I  was  at  the 
Bourse  du  Travail,  in  the  office  of  the  redoubtable 
Pataud,  the  secretary  of  the  Electricians'  Union. 
You  know  whom  I  mean.  Pataud,  who  has  merely 
to  move  his  finger  to  plunge  Paris  into  darkness. 
On  the  floor  around  him  there  were  piles  of  pam- 
phlets. Good!  I  said.  You  are  trying  to  educate 
your  comrades,  for  these,  I  suppose,  are  doctrinal 
works  intended  for  them. 

"Those"  he  replied,  "are  copies  of  'Sherlock 
Holmes'  The  members  of  the  Union "  cannot 
stand  any  other  kind  of  literature." 

Then  France  concluded: 

//  our  party  were  better  organized,  if  it  were 
not  divided  into  thirty-six  fragments,  it  could  organ- 
ize more  persistent  and  more  methodical  propa- 
ganda, and  our  principles  would  have  a  more 
thoughtful  reception  from  the  working  classes.2 

2  Anatole  France  has  not  lost  his  interest  in  the  Russian  rev- 
olutionaries. 

One  day  Gustave  Her<ve  brought  him  a  young  man  of  thirty-five 
years,  pale,  with  the  close-cropped  hair  of  a  convict,  and  an  enig- 
matical sneer  perpetually  on  his  emaciated  face. 

D230;] 


Russian  Revolution  at  Villa  Said 

r( turning  to  a  young  engraver)  Just  look  at  these 
plates  by  Hans  Burgmair,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  them!  This  lord  and  his  lady  embracing: 
how  touching  they  are.  Look  at  the  lady's  big 
belly.  It  is  not  because  she  is  pregnant.  At  that 
time  fashion  demanded  that  the  women  should  have 

The  editor  of  the  "Guerre  Sociale"  introduced  him: 

"Boris  Savinkov,  assassin." 

"Delighted,"  said  M.  Bergeret,  holding  out  his  hand  to  the 
stranger. 

"1  must  ask  my  friend  Herve  to  have  a  hundred  visiting  cards 
printed  for  me  with  the  title  he  has  given  me"  said  Savinkov  jok- 
ingly. 

"Whom  has  he  assassinated?"  asked  France. 

"The  minister  Plevhe  and  the  Grand  Duke  Sergius"  replied 
Herve. 

t'Big  game"  declared  M.  Bergeret. 

Afterwards  Savinkov  became  a  minister  under  the  Kerensky  gov- 
ernment. He  vainly  tried  to  resist  Bolshevism.  He  had  to  leave 
Russia.  From  the  other  side  of  Europe  he  tries  unceasingly  to 
raise  up  adversaries  against  Lenin  and  Trotsky.  This  erstvjhile 
Terrorist  is  now  labelled  a  reactionary.  This  is  not  the  least  par- 
adoxical turn  of  his  fate. 

Another  Russian,  M.  Rappoport,  who  has  become  a  French  citizen, 
and  vjho  has  a  deep  and  unshakable  sympathy  for  the  Bolshevists, 
keeps  up  a  warm  friendship  with  Anatole  France.  The  truculent 
portrait  of  him  by  the  painter  Van  Dongen  is  well  known.  A  to- 
bacco jar  furnished  iuith  a  red  beard  which  hides  the  features  al- 
most completely.  In  the  midst  of  this  beard  two  gold-rimmed 
glasses  glitter.  He  is  a  Diogenes  or  a  Menippus  thrown  into 
modern  society.  He  speaks  with  a  strong  accent,  and  launches  a 
continuous  stream  of  amusing  and  cruel  witticisms  which  hit  at 
socialists  and  bourgeois  indiscriminately.  During  the  war  he  went 
many  times  to  Touraine,  to  La  Bechellerie  where  France  had  re- 
tired. He  used  to  turn  his  host's  library  upside  down,  stuff  his 

£231:1 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

big  bellies,  just  as  today  it  commands  them  to 
have  none.  What  bold  lines!  What  a  lovely 
harmony  of  composition! 

After  all,  from  time  to  time  one  must  enjoy  what 
is  the  greatest  consolation  in  life. 

pockets  with  venerable  tomes  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  enjoy 
them  lying  flat  on  his  stomach  under  the  willows  in  the  meadow. 
After  his  departure  M.  Bergeret  would  ask  his  secretary  to  pick 
up  among  the  tall  grass  the  volumes  which  failed  to  answer  the 
roll-call.  One  day  a  precious  Ronsard  was  found  astride  of  the 
wire  clothes-line. 

During  a  bombardment  of  Paris  by  Gothas  an  unpleasant  ad-ven- 
ture befell  M.  Rappoport.  Denounced  because  of  alarmist  state- 
ments which  he  was  alleged  to  have  made  in  a  cellar,  and  which 
some  over-zealous  patriots  pretended  to  have  heard,  he  was  locked 
up.  Anatole  France  did  not  hesitate  to  write  him  a  letter  •which 
was  read  in  court  and  saved  the  prisoner.  In  it  M.  Bergeret  said 
that  M.  Rappoport's  ideas  were  well  known  to  him,  that  they  were 
sound,  and  that  the  imprisonment  of  such  a  man  was  a  scandal. 
It  is  certainly  M.  Rappoport's  influence  of  late  which  has  inclined 
Anatole  France  more  and  more  to  communism. 


C2323 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 

There  was  a  vacancy  for  one  of  the  Paris  seats 
in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  A  delegation  from 
the  Socialist  Party  came  to  propose  that  M. 
Bergeret  should  stand  for  election.  That  showed 
how  little  they  knew  him.  He  is  nothing  of  a  poli- 
tician. He  often  speaks  in  public,  but  very  much 
against  his  natural  inclination.  "Comrade  Ana- 
tole,"  as  he  is  sometimes  called  at  these  meetings, 
is  not  an  adept  in  the  art  of  oratory.  By  striking 
contrast,  he  is  a  divine  talker.  He  is  a  magician 
of  words.  Now  tender,  now  mocking,  he  speaks 
like  a  book,  like  the  most  exquisite  of  books. 

At  a  public  meeting  he  has  difficulty  in  finding 
words.  He  reads  his  speeches.  He  intones  them 
in  a  nasal  voice  which  is  not  lacking  in  solemnity. 
If  he  has  to  improvize,  he  stammers,  and  loses  his 
head.  This  emotion  itself  is  the  most  delicate 
compliment  to  the  crowd  which,  proud  of  intimi- 
dating a  man  of  genius,  applauds  him  frantically. 
iBut  in  Parliament  his  opponents  would  not  perhaps 
be  so  well  disposed.  Another  insuperable  defect! 
He  never  replies  to  letters.  He  does  not  even 

C2353 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

open  them.  Formerly  they  used  to  pile  up  on  a 
tray  until  old  Josephine  burned  them.  It  was  a 
ritual  of  this  faithful  servant.  Also  note  that  M. 
Bergeret  forgets  appointments,  or  else  he  presents 
himself  a  day  too  soon  or  a  day  too  late.  The 
voters  would  soon  tire  of  such  a  representative. 
As  a  matter  of  fact;  the  tricoloured  sash  would 
suit  this  philosopher  about  as  well  as  a  hat  would 
a  monkey. 

Consequently,  on  this  occasion  he  declined  the 
perilous  honour  extended  to  him.  The  delegates 
insisted.  He  stuck  to  his  refusal. 

/  am  flattered  and  touched  by  your  proposal,  but 
I  have  not  in  me  the  stuff  of  a  representative  of  the 
people.  But,  at  least,  do  not  accuse  me  of  des- 
pising politics.  On  the  contrary,  I  admire  the  in- 
trepid spirits  who  consecrate  their  lives  to  it,  and 
who,  of  course,  stand  for  sound  ideas,  that  is,  ours. 

Thereupon  the  name  of  Jean  Jaures  came  to 
his  lips.  Anatole  France  professed  the  deepest 
friendship  for  him.  He  liked  him  for  the  agility  of 
his  mind,  for  the  prodigious  range  of  his  knowledge, 
and,  above  all,  for  the  greatness  of  his  character. 

What  a  noble  conscience!  said  he.  Sometimes 
he  is  unskilful  by  dint  of  honesty.  He  is  not  afraid 
to  challenge  the  passions  of  the  mob.  He  even 
irritates  his  own  partisans  by  his  opposition  to  their 
extremism,  and  by  his  loyalty  towards  his  adver- 

£236:1 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 

saries.  He  has  elected  the  most  ungrateful  part. 
He  tries  to  be  the  mediator  between  the  workers 
and  the  bourgeois,  and  to  avoid  violence..  .It  is  a 
fine  task,  but  a  hard  one. 

Sometimes  in  a  strike,  when  the  military  call  up- 
on the  workers,  who  are  brandishing  paving-stones, 
to  disperse,  an  heroic  man,  to  prevent  blood-shed, 
will  advance  into  the  danger  zone  which  separates 
the  opposing  forces.  Amidst  the  rumbling  of  the 
storm,  he  preaches  calm,  thus  running  the  risk  of 
receiving  both  the  bullets  of  Law  and  Order  and 
the  stones  of  the  rioters.  That  picture  exactly  rep- 
resents the  mission  which  my  friend  Jaures  has 
assumed  and  the  threats  which  he  must  face. 

We  remembered  those  words  later  on,  when  the 
celebrated  orator  tragically  perished,  and  they 
seemed  prophetic. 

A  moment  afterwards  France  praised  the 
disinterestedness  of  Jules  Gucsde. 

What  strength  this  man  finds  in  his  poverty! 
He  always  wears  the  most  modest  clothes;  but  even 
his  demeanour  suggests  poverty,  and  would  do  so, 
even  though  his  clothes  were  less  faded.  It  must 
be  admitted,  his  role  is  not  so  arduous  as  that  of 
Jaures.  It  is  less  difficult  to  refuse  obstinately  to 
collaborate  with  the  middle  class  than  to  try  to  re- 
form it.  The  hostility  which  exists  between  these 
two  leaders  of  socialism  frightens  the  pessimists. 

C2373 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

And  the  profound  divisions  in  our  party  are  often 
interpreted  as  signs  of  weakness.  But  they  are 
rather  signs  of  vitality,  I  think. 

There  was  some  astonishment. 

Yes,  indeed!  he  resumed.  Just  think.  There 
will  never  be  such  lively  dissensions  amongst  the 
leading  revolutionaries  of  today  as  there  were 
among  the  early  Christians,  between  Saint  Peter 
and  Saint  Paul,  for  instance.  In  the  first  century 
there  were  assuredly  Pagans  who  were  nearer  to 
Paul  than  Peter  was,  the  Syrians,  amongst  others. 
Yet,  so  far  as  I  know,  Christianity  has  not  proved 
abortive.  In  fact,  it  has  not  succeeded  too  badly. 
And  it  is  on  the  same  day,  it  is  together,  that  Peter 
and  Paul  are  celebrated.  So  everything  leads  me 
to  believe  that  the  socialists  of  the  future  will 
celebrate  Jean  Jaufes  and  Jules  Guesde  on  the 
same  date. 

We  laughed. 

Then  M.  Bergcret  spoke  of  Briand,  who  was 
for  many  years  his  friend. 

For  many  a  year  he  planned  to  leave  us  in  the 
lurch.  He  used  to  get  impatient  with  the  ambitious 
young  men  who  tried  to  overthrow  him  at  con- 
gresses. 

"I  have  let  them  walk  on  me  long  enough,"  he 
would  grumble. 

Do  you  not  think  that  a  nice  metaphor?     It  well 

[238:1 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 

describes  that  tactics  of  those  newcomers  who,  in 
order  to  gain  the  confidence  of  meetings,  begin  by 
trampling  on  the  speakers  of  renown. 

Briand  accepted  very  reluctantly  the  desision  of 
the  congresses  against  socialist  participation  in 
bourgeois  government. 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  he  said  to  me,  "a  great  pity! 
There  are  four  or  five  of  us  who  would  do  very 
well  in  the  Cabinet." 

I  am  sure  that,  amongst  those  four  or  five,  he 
counted  himself  as  equalling  five  or  six.  He  has 
attained  the  power  he  so  ardently  desired,  and  he 
wields  it  with  skill,  for  he  understands  the  art  of 
governing  men. 

I  remember  that,  at  the  time  when  he  used  to 
speak  at  popular  meetings,  he  was  wonderfully 
clever  at  working  up  the  public.  One  day  at  a 
meeting  he  was  near  me  on  the  platform.  The 
audience  was  cold,  and  the  most  inflammatory 
rhetoric  could  not  make  it  thaw. 

"Wait,"  Briand  whispered  to  me,  "I  am  going  to 
'enliven'  the  discussion." 

In  the  middle  of  the  crowd  he  noticed  an  honest 
booby  who,  with  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open,  was 
not  saying  a  word. 

"Comrade!"  he  shouted,  "why  do  you  keep 
interrupting?" 

"I?"   replied   the    other,    utterly    flabbergasted. 

C2393 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

"Yes;  you!  You  ought  to  know  that  a  loyal 
opponent  attacks  openly.  Come  up  on  the  plat- 
form." 

"Speech!     Speech!"  yelled  the  crowd. 

They  jostled  the  poor  fellow,  who  was  trying  to 
get  away.  Suddenly  he  was  grabbed  by  half  a 
dozen  madmen,  who  hoisted  him  up  onto  the  plat- 
form. He  got  there  head  first.  For  half  a  second 
I  beheld  two  legs  struggling  desperately  in  space. 

"Throw  him  out!  Throw  him  out!"  shouted 
the  mob.  And  the  two  legs  disappeared  in  the  con- 
fusion. The  ice  was  broken,  and  the  audience,  its 
appetite  whetted  by  this  summary  execution,  listened 
to  the  speakers  with  edifying  sympathy. 

M.  Bergeret  continued: 

Recently  again,  Briand  gave  proof  of  his  great 
enterprising  spirit.  It  was  the  day  when  old  Cardi- 
nal Richard  was  leaving  the  house  of  M.  Denys 
Cochin,  whose  guest  he  had  been,  to  take  pos- 
session of  his  new  house  in  the  Rue  Barbet-de-Jouy. 
Briand,  who  was  then  in  power,  was  afraid  that 
there  might  be  hostile  demonstrations  against  the 
Archbishop  on  his  way.  So  he  devised  this  scheme. 

He  sent  policemen  in  plain  clothes  in  front  of  M. 
Denys  Cochin  s  house.  When  the  prelate's  carriage 
came  out,  the  police  shouted  at  the  top  of  their 
voices:  "Long  live  the  Archbishop!  Long  live  the 
Archbishop!"  Unyoking  the  horses  they  got  be- 
C240] 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 

tween  the  shafts,  as  if  to  show  their  fanatical  devo- 
tion to  the  Cardinal.  Then  they  pulled  the  carriage, 
pushing  and  shoving  and  shouting  hurrahs,  and 
made  of  at  top  speed.  When  they  met  fervent 
young  Catholics  who  cheered  the  venerable  old 
gentleman,  they  jostled  them,  and  continued  their 
way  as  fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them.  They 
covered  the  distance  in  no  time,  rushed  the  Arch- 
bishop into  the  house  and  closed  the  door  on  him. 
And  in  this  fashion  the  trouble  was  avoided  which 
the  goverment  feared.  It  is  by  such  subtle  artifices 
that  political  wisdom  may  be  recognized. 

I  praise  that  quality  in  others,  and  it  seems  almost 
miraculous  to  me,  for  I  feel  that  I  am  quite  desti- 
tute of  it.  That  is  why  I  should  make  a  very  poor 
deputy.  Yes,  yes!  I  assure  you.  Moreover,  I 
prefer  my  trade  as  a  philosopher.  My  foolish  van- 
ity leads  me  to  think  that  it  also  has  its  uses. 

Then  M.  Bergeret  developed  the  parallel  for 
which  we  were  waiting. 

I  know  very  well  that  the  dreamer  is  a  person  of 
little  consequence  beside  the  politician.  The,  poli- 
tician is  the  idol  of  the  mob.  He  is  its  master  and 
its  slave.  He  drags  in  his  wake  the  whole  tribe 
of  those  who  seek  favours.  He  is  influential,  cele- 
brated, famous.  He  holds  in  his  hands  the  destiny 
of  the  people.  He  leads  them  to  prosperity  or  to 
ruin.  He  makes  the  laws,  and  that,  more  than 

1:241: 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

anything  else,  seems  to  denote  his  power.  To  make 
laws,  to  draw  up  regulations  which  the  crowd  must 
obey,  to  set  the  limits  beyond  which  no  citizen  has 
the  right  to  go,  is  that  not  almost  divine  sover- 
eignty? 

There  is  only  one  reservation  to  be  made,  that 
is,  laws  never  regulate  anything.  When  the  author- 
ities formulate  a  law  it  has  long  since  passed  into 
common  usage.  It  can  merely  sanction  custom. 
If  it  does  not,  it  remains  a  dead  letter.  Above  the 
legislator  there  are  accepted  customs.  Now,  by 
whom  are  these  established?  By  everybody,  but 
particularly  by  the  dreamers.  Is  their  mission  not 
to  think  for  the  community?  In  order  to  think, 
training  is  necessary,  as  it  is  for  manual  labour,  for 
commerce,  for  seamanship,  for  house-building. 
I  do  not  know  whether  the  men  who  cut  and  polish 
ideas  have  more  merit  than  other  mortals.  At 
least,  when  they  play  their  part  well,  they  are  en- 
titled to  some  gratitude. 

In  many  ways  they  make  life  better  for  every- 
body. In  his  laboratory,  from  his  quiet  courtyard, 
the  frail,  bespectacled  man  of  science  reshapes  the 
world.  Under  our  very  eyes  do  we  not  see  the 
revolution  spreading  which  modern  machinery,  and 
particularly  the  steam  engine,  have  efected?  The 
echoes  of  this  invention  are  far  from  dying  down. 

C2423 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 

Distances  are  shortened.  This  Europe  of  ours,  re- 
duced in  size  by  the  extreme  rapidity  of  communi- 
sations,  is  really  no  larger  now  than  France  was 
under  the  First  Empire.  At  this  moment  the  whole 
world  is  not  much  larger  than  little  Europe  was  a 
century  ago.  What  imminent  changes  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  this  truth  foretells! 

Then  there  is  the  prodigious  rise  of  books,  pam- 
phlets and  newspapers,  which  scatter  everywhere 
the  most  daring  ideas.  Do  they  not  hasten  the  com- 
ing changes?  It  is  not  only  by  inventions  that  the 
dreamers  change  the  existence  of  their  fellow-men, 
but  by  ideas  and  speculations  which  seem  most  use- 
less. Copernicus  proves  that  the  earth  is  not  sta- 
tionary. He  drives  it  from  that  central  position 
which  it  so  proudly  occupied.  It  is  nothing  more 
than  a  frail  wanderer  through  infinity.  Consider 
the  deep  repercussions  of  this  change.  Since  man 
no  longer  dwells  at  the  immovable  centre  of  the 
world,  since  he  wanders  over  a  little  drop  of  mud 
lost  in  the  immensity  of  space,  he  is  no  longer  lord 
of  the  universe.  He  is  losing  his  theological  assur- 
ance. Doubt,  criticism,  and  all  the  fruitful  rest- 
lessness of  modern  times  are  getting  under  his  skull. 
A  poor  creature,  most  uncertain  and  very  pitiable, 
he  realizes  a  little  better  every  day  the  sancitity  of 
tolerance  and  mutual  compassion. 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

Darwin  teaches  the  law  of  evolution.  Think  of 
the  unlimited  influence  it  will  henceforth  exercise 
upon  the  mind.  Constantly  the  mind  feels  more 
and  more  the  profound,  original  sympathy  which 
unites  all  that  lives  and  suffers.  Constantly  it  under- 
stands more  clearly  that  everything  is  gradually 
changing,  and  that  it  is  useless  to  try  to  stop  the 
tide  of  inevitable  change,  or  to  hasten  it.  Thus 
most  of  the  great  discoveries  end  by  acting  upon 
our  daily  existence. 

And  the  other  dreamers,  the  writers  and  the  art- 
ists— have  they  not  as  much  power  as  the  scientists? 
In  truth,  it  is  they  who  guide  the  people  from  above 
and  in  advance,  since  they  form  or  clarify  the  mind 
of  each  nation.  Without  the  intervention  of  the 
poets,  how  would  the  moral  unity  of  a  country  be 
born?  How  would  a  common  idea  emerge  from 
the  diversity  of  races,  the  extraordinary  differences 
of  the  provinces,  brought  together  at  haphazard  by 
conquests  and  treaties,  if  the  thinkers  did  not  el- 
elaborate  it  together,  and  then  for  all  their  compat- 
riots in  turn?  First  of  all,  some  dreamers  express 
the  feelings  of  the  people  about  them:  they  become 
the  mouthpiece  of  those  who  toil  and  rejoice  beside 
them.  Then,  if  their  words  are  clear,  if  their  natal 
domain  imposes  its  law  by  wisdom  or  by  force  upon 
neighbouring  territories,  those  first  poetic  accents 
[244] 


The  Omnipotence  of  Dream 

are  transmitted  like  echoes  to  other  bards,  who  take 
them  up  and  spread  them. 

Gradually  over  the  whole  area  of  a  country  an 
agreement  is  reached,  a  harmony  is  composed,  all 
dissonances  are  resolved  in  a  single  melody.  Many 
dreamers,  many  poets,  many  artists  take  part  in 
this  concert.  Yet  from  century  to  century,  the 
leaders  of  the  orchestra  are  few.  There  are  not 
many  Fillons,  Rabelais',  Montaignes,  Molieres  and 
Voltaires.,  .  .  . 

To  change  the  metaphor,  these  great  men  are 
the  master-builders  who  construct  a  nation.  At 
the  call  of  their  genius,  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
journeymen  respond.  In  this  way  the  character  of 
a  State  is  defined.  Thus  our  spiritual  motherland 
grew  up,  an  edifice  of  independence  and  sincerity, 
of  ironic  wit  and  deadly  mockery,  an  edifice  of 
reason,  of  sociability,  of  pity,  an  edifice  of  human 
fraternity. 

Now,  my  friends,  we  must  continue  bravely  to 
build  up  this  lovely  edifice.  This  is  not  the  time  to 
stand  by  with  folded  arms.  It  must  be  enlarged 
that  it  may  receive  the  whole  world.  That  is  the 
task  of  the  dreamers,  great  and  small.  In  order  to 
see  the  walls  rising,  the  proud  colonnades  and  broad 
facades  outlined,  the  humblest  workman  will  joy- 
fully climb  the  ladders,  and  carry  the  hod  full  of 


The  Opinions  of  Anatole  France 

mortar  to  the  more  skilled  labourers,  who  are  lay- 
ing the  stones  at  the  top  of  the  scaffolding. 

Therefore,  my  friends,  let  me  mix  the  mortar, 
let  me  mix  the  mortar,  for  the  City  of  Dream. 
That  is  my  destiny;  I  like  it,  and  I  ask  no  other. 


THE   END 


1:246:1 


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